


Everything in its Right Place

by Devolucao



Category: Naruto
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Traumatic Brain Injury, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devolucao/pseuds/Devolucao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raidou, before and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Raidou remembers the explosion.

How the world flips on its own axis, like he is the fixed point around which everything else revolves, and he is not falling. The ground is simply welcoming him into its arms and gently rocking him; there, there. He is feeling no pain. He is pillowed by the clouds and lulled by the whispering branches, and he is staring up as the roof goes. He is watching as the smoke billows, as bigger and bigger chunks of tile start to rain down, and there are bodies everywhere, and he knows this isn't real. This never happened. This is all a dream, and any minute, he's going to wake up screaming.

Genma is in the stadium below, and his back is turned; Raidou is lying on a soft bed of mulch; he is carried away by a pair of giant hands; he is carried away on a boat and rocked gently to sleep. He is become seasick. He is feverish and thirsty, and he wants to go home. 

He turns over. He is lying on the cool, concrete floor of the mezzanine. If he tries, he can still see through the railings to the arena floor. Genma lies on a white stretcher, half naked beneath a sheet, surrounded by spectators and stuck all over with wires and tubes. The ground sways. Raidou's having one of his nightmares again, and Iwashi is trying to wake him.

"Come on, open your eyes--pupils are sluggish--shallow resps." 

Here now, he's thinking, not so rough. He's tired. He just needs a glass of water and a kiss on the forehead, he'd like someone to come tuck him in, but he's on the mezzanine again; the sun is in his eyes, and his ears are filled with cold static, loud humming, urgent voices. Something isn't right. He's in the woods, and the woods are exploding. Iwashi is shaking him in a dream.

"Namiashi-san--" 

He's been up all night studying. He's always been diligent--not a sluggish pupil at all--but somebody keeps shaking him. His mother keeps shaking him. The pages are stuck to his cheek, the words all blurring and melting together, and the sun is exploding. He blinks to try and clear his vision, tries to reach up and shade his face, but there are strings attached; he's all tangled up in something.

"Raidou?"

He wakes up, and Shizune is leaning over him, back-lit. Too much white, too much light. No mistaking it; he knows where he is right away. The sheets are starched, the air is dry, and the metal rail is cold against his wrist.

He tries to speak, but his throat is too parched. So he signs: I'm here.

Shizune tucks his hand in, away from the icy rail. Her face is drawn, her eyelids puffy like she too has been up all night studying, and he wants to tell her she looks ghastly. 

"You had us worried, you know." She sounds hoarse. "I'll have someone warm up a blanket."

"Hospital?" 

"Yeah, you're in the hospital," she says. "Do you remember what happened?"

The bottom drops out of his stomach. It's never a good thing when somebody asks you that.

"You've had a bad concussion," she explains. "It's common--"

"Genma," he says.

"Lady Tsunade's with him now. We're doing everything we can. But I won't lie to you..."

It's bad. He might not remember what happened specifically, but he knows the script. He hears the murmuring just outside the door, family members waiting anxiously for news, hoping Raidou will know something they don't.

Genma's parents are kind and careworn, softened by a long retirement baking pastries. Raidou's always imagined they'd smell the way a cream-puff tastes.

Tou-chan, and this is what he insists Raidou call him, takes his hand between both thick, leathery paws and says, "You've always taken care of our Gen-chan."

Now, predictably, Mama Shiranui pulls out a handkerchief, and it is Raidou's job to console them. Tell them everything's going to be alright. Genma's a fighter. He's a soldier. He's a proud, beautiful lion with a will of fire, and he's going to pull through. He's going to emerge perfectly mended with all his limbs intact. He'll be conscious and talking. A bit bruised, a bit sore, but nothing more wrong that a few days bed-rest and home cooking won't cure.

This, Raidou wants to believe as much as they do. He nods off while Shizune is briefing them, and his weak heart shows him a vision: of his wrist lying across the green expanse of his bedroll, his hand loosely cupped, and his fingers playing with the hair fanned across Genma's pillow. Of the morning they all crept out of their tent to find the campsite enshrouded, and there were deer browsing just inches away. He holds his breath, and Genma raises his hands to clap and startle them off.

Awake again. Genma's parents have gone, the sun has risen in the sky outside, and Raidou is being urged to sit up. He doesn't want to. His head is expansive and his body hollow. He's sure he's going to be sick, but Shizune cajoles him; Genma's just come out of surgery, she says; they'll be wheeling him into recovery soon.

Raidou picks up his head. 

"That's it," Shizune coaxes. "Fight!"

He gets his forearms and his elbows underneath him, turns to the left, and vomits over the bed-rail, missing the other medic by centimeters. He is up, though. Shizune catches him by the shoulders, and somebody stuffs pillows behind his back, and still somebody else shines a light in his good eye. He's got a small subdural hematoma, Shizune explains, just a small area of bleeding. It's stable for now, but they'll be keeping a close watch on it. How is he feeling?

He's spitting gobs into a pink, plastic basin, his head is swimming--rather poorly, at that--and he has no idea how he got here. He's not even sure what day it is. They were on a mission, though. He's sure of that much.

Over the next few minutes, hours, he can't tell, medics check him over and assure him everything's fine. He's going to feel quite rough for a while, but that's to be expected. He is conscious and talking, they say, and that's a good sign. They keep asking questions and he keeps giving the same answers: he doesn't know, he can't recall, ten-fifteen-twenty-twenty-five-thirty; dog, apple, triangle. But none of it means anything. He is a radio stuck between stations. All is static. During his cat-scan, he hounds Shizune for information, and is told to lie still, be silent. He just wants to know what's happening. How badly was Genma hurt? Is everyone else alright? Was anyone inside the village attacked? 

Lady Tsunade places a fingertip to his forehead and orders him to 'shut it down'. He's done well, completed his mission, and returned home alive. That will do for now.

He hears something about an operation, but he ignores it. He's going to see Genma now, right? Now? Now?

Shizune laughs at him--a good sign?--and says, "Yes, now."

In recovery, the curtains are drawn and the lighting kept purposely dim. Raidou's been here often enough to know how things work. He knows what all the little lines and numbers on the monitors mean, and he knows what each tube is for, which ones it's safe to jostle. He's seen how an intravenous catheter is placed, and so he is extra gentle in taking Genma's hand. 

He can't talk yet or open his eyes, but turns towards the sound of Shizune's voice.

"Somebody's here to see you," she says. "He's a little choked up right now."

Genma's hand flutters, and Raidou firms his grasp. "I am not," he says.

"He is," Shizune says. "You ought to see him. It's cute."

Genma's mouth twitches behind the oxygen mask, his eyes tracking behind their lids. Lady Tsunade is speaking to his parents just outside, as if he were a sick child and not a man of twenty-eight years. She's trying to be gentle on them, though they know very well how things are, and this won't be the first time they've had this talk. This won't be the first time Raidou's had to eavesdrop.

He knows what's coming and is waiting for his cue to step aside.

They come in softly and speak in reverent whispers, and though this is nothing new to them, he can tell it never gets any easier. 

"It's going to be alright," says Mama Shiranui, and it takes a moment for Raidou to connect. It takes her hand on his shoulder to realize she's talking to him. 

There's something he seems to be forgetting. Something nagging at the back of his mind, a stripped wire or faulty connection, a blown fuse he cannot quite reach. He is crying not knowing why, but he needs this. He needs this time, the lights kept low, the beds pushed side by side and the curtains drawn. He needs to be allowed to stay with his comrade. Please. 

"Oh, you're not going anywhere," says Lady Tsunade. "Not for a while, anyway." 

He thinks she means overnight, twenty-four hours is quite standard, and he's grateful. He's got no idea how very serious things are until she starts talking about surgery. He has nodded off again, lost time. He wakes up inside the CT scanner and tries to pull off his leads. He tries to get out and walk, he knows not where. Somebody catches him, and he is lifted up. He's as weak as a baby. How can he make them understand? He was fine. They'd said he was fine.   
He needs to be with his partner now. He needs to go.

Lady Tsunade brushes the hair back from his forehead and turns to ask someone, just beyond the line of his vision: "Shizune, can you translate for me?"

He thinks he's crying again. He's signing, trying to say he doesn't want surgery.

Wait, he's saying. Can't it wait?

No, she's afraid it can't. Does he understand how serious this is? Does he understand he could die? 

While his degradation is slow, and while he's at least conscious, it is happening. He is the isolated village at the foot of a giant glacier. He is a poppy growing in a lava field. He is fooling himself if he thinks everything is okay.

But don't worry, she says, they're going to make it okay. The operation is simple, and he'll be awake as soon as it's over. They'll give him something to make the time seem shorter, and he'll be back at Genma's side as if nothing ever happened.

Mama and Daddy want him to get better, and they know Gen-chan would agree. Do the operation. Don't worry.

So he signs the forms as they are prepping him. The clippers tickle his scalp, and he is facing the volcano. It is calm and covered in snow, and there are deer browsing along its slopes; there are flags strung across the village below, and people carrying pails of yak milk, bundles of hide and sacks of grain; there are clouds skating the peak, and he looks up, shading his eyes. The mountain is at peace, and so is he.

Genma is awake when they wheel Raidou into recovery. Though he's still quite weak, he is as sharp and as present as ever. He grabs hold of Raidou's hand as they bring the gurney alongside, and says he's glad Raidou took the treatment. He says he waited for him all night, and asks how he's feeling. Can he talk?

Yes, though it feels a bit like pouring syrup from his mouth. He's still logy from the drugs, he says, but he's not in any pain.

That will come later, they assure him, along with the morphine. And now they must move him to his own bed. He ought to be able enough to assist. There, now, it seems we're feeling strong!

Raidou musters a laugh at this. Last week he was benching two-fifty, today he is able to wiggle his way from one sick-bed to the next. He is followed by a tangle of wires and tubes. He's got an i.v. in his right arm and bandages on his left from several false starts, because he hadn't been conscious to warn them, and while he is sat up sipping lukewarm ginger-ale from a tiny can, a nurse comes and checks his catheter bag. He laughs again. Is he peeing into that? Is there a tube in his penis? Damn, that is hilarious. Who put it there? Who is the poor bastard? Hey, hey, Genma, did you know....

Lady Tsunade says it's great that he finds none of this alarming. However, he ought to know how close they'd both come to dying out there. She's not about to go pointing fingers and laying blame, but there are matters they need to discuss. About the mission. About their detour. About what Raidou remembers, and what they both saw.

Twenty-six hours ago, she reports, Uchiha Sasuke went missing. His whereabouts are currently unknown, but she has every reason to believe he is with Orochimaru's people, the very same group they'd run across on their way home.

That would be quite the happy accident, wouldn't it? But Raidou's not smiling anymore. His recollection is full of holes, is missing large chunks like a bombed out roof, but if his and Genma's conditions are any gage, then these people are serious bad news. With all due respect, if it'd been him in charge, he would not have sent a bunch of twelve year old children after them.

To be fair, Genma says, some of them are fourteen.

Right. As if either of them made the best decisions at that age. Raidou is thirty-three now, and just look at him: carrying on a perfectly routine debriefing while peeing into a bag. Seriously, look at it all. How long is he going to be attached to that?

"Until your kidneys are stable," Lady Tsunade says. "For now, try not to worry about it."

Easy for her to say. She isn't the one sleeping next to a liter of urine.

Genma just wants to know when they can go home. He's still on supplemental oxygen after the chest tube, and weak from blood-loss--most of which Lady Tsunade said was internal--but he's quite well enough to complain: how bored he is, how certain he is the hospital and this room in particular is haunted, and no-one seems able to reassure him nobody's ever died in his bed, or that he himself is alive and not a ghost. As if knowing for certain is any better than not knowing.

He starts to say something about 'at least Raidou's bed', then he goes quite pink. Another puzzle piece fallen into place. Another detail painted in. 

It's fine, Raidou wants to tell him. Lady Tsunade isn't one to gossip or care. He's simply happy to hear it from someone else's lips, and to know it's not his mind spinning out some elaborate fantasy. When he sleeps that night, he dreams of making love in a warm cocoon of blankets: of a night in the middle of howling winter, Genma leaning over him, smiling. Yes, he thinks, just like that. Everything is perfect. Everything is marvelous. Then he wakes up.

Stale bedclothes, an unfamiliar room, and nurses checking on them every hour like clockwork. The tape around his I.V. site itches. His skull aches. His cock is absolutely tenderized from the catheter, and he is bored. Shizune says that's a good sign--the boredom, that is. Good wound healing, good reflexes, good job filling up that bag, she says, and don't give me that look!

He knows damn well which look. 

Genma, for all that he's stuck here in the same hell, does his best to give comfort. The beds are narrow and their bodies still brittle, but given enough time and encouragement, Raidou finds himself tucked into Genma's side, lightly dozing whilst the rain patters cozily outside.

He's asked no fewer than a dozen times if it's alright, and every time, Genma's laughed like he's the most charming thing ever, and said yes. Yes, it's alright. Yes, we've done this before. Yes, we've done that. Doesn't Raidou remember?

It's morning hunkered down by the fire, and they're the only two awake. He's taking a great risk, but Raidou leaves his bedroll to lean down over Genma and demand coffee. 'Go now,' he says. 'I'll be naked when you return.'

That gets him up, groping around for his kit with his eyes still glued shut, and Raidou feels momentarily awful for teasing him. 

'I'll get you your coffee,' Genma says, scrubbing at his face. 'Soon as we get home.'

Another dream. Genma wakes him with the slightest of movements, reaching down to check him against rolling off the side of the bed. "Here," he says. "Lay your head on my stomach."

Raidou hesitates. "But your sutures--"

"No," he insists. "I like some pressure on it. Right here."

And it's precisely at that moment--with Raidou's face inches from Genma's lap, his mind on nothing more than getting each of them comfortably settled again--that a nurse barges into their room. Doesn’t bother knocking or announcing herself, just blows in with this frosty look on her face and jerks back the covers of Raidou’s empty bed like she’s searching for contraband.

She spots them, and for all the racket you'd think someone just set a chicken loose. "Namiashi-san, your head! You mustn't!"

He lets himself be herded back to his bed, IV stand trailing sadly behind, and if he wasn't already counting the days 'til their release, he is now. 

Genma looks offended on his behalf, but says nothing. 

"I'm supposed to be up and walking," Raidou complains. 

"You are, yes," says the nurse, red-faced. "But it's not good to lie like that." 

Come now, he thinks, we weren't doing anything. He's thinking he'll lie however and on whomever he pleases, try and stop him. He's thinking maybe he ought to say something, when Shizune pops quickly round the doorway and gives him the old eyeball. 

"Ma'am," he says, and back into bed he goes.

"There now," the nurse twitters. No harm, no foul. She checks his i.v. and his bandages, fluffs his pillows, and asks Genma the questions. Is Raidou sleeping alright? Any pain? Headaches? Nausea? Double vision?

"No, ma'am," Genma answers. "He's strictly monocular."

Raidou would laugh if he weren't so thoroughly done with all this. But he's promised Lady Tsunade he won't make trouble. "My eye's fine," he says, but doesn't tell her about the headache. He doesn't tell her about the dizziness or the vertigo, the rushing water he hears whenever he moves his head. He just lies back, neutral face, neutral voice, and waits for her to finish up and leave.

He watches Genma watching him, and he waits for the apologies. The shitty jokes. The excuses on his behalf. The confusion. What's with him? Is he alright? Seriously. Talk to me. Raidou?

"What?" 

"She's gone now," Genma's saying. "What was all that?"

"All what?" And why does Genma look so spooked?

"I called your name three times," he says. "Didn't you hear me?"

Raidou lifts a hand to rub at his face, then remembers: his bandages. "I'm okay," he says.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he says, turning onto his side for some shut-eye. "Just perfect."

With morning comes a change in shift. New nurses, new nargles, same bullshit. Raidou is not a happy camper, is he? 

"I'm ecstatic," he lies. "What happened to the nurse from yesterday? Was she fired?"

"Ah," says the new guy; scruffy hair, glasses, tobacco stained fingers. "Naegi-san warned me about you."

That shouldn't take him aback, but it does. 

"TBI, is it," he says, bluntly flipping through Raidou's chart. "Sad, so sad. You see this kind of thing every day--ah--you had decompression surgery, is that correct?"

"Yeah," Raidou says.

"We can work with that, we can work with that," he mutters, pretty much to himself. "Now, Naegi-san says you're a bit of a challenge--" 

Raidou wonders what else this Naegi-san's said about him. 

"Nah," Genma says, "Rai-chan's a pussy cat."

The new medic nods and strokes his bearded chin. "House cats are responsible for over forty-thousand deaths a year. I'm Sato-san, by the way. We're supposed to begin physical therapy this week."

Genma paints a brief vision of himself being dragged, kicking and clawing from his bed, ass showing and everything--hoping to get a laugh.

Sato-san says it won't be that bad, and also he knows sign-language amongst several other languages--curse-words mainly--so don't try and pull anything. Let's get along and take it easy, he says. This is called a cross-trainer, he says, hop on and let me know if you're going to puke or pass out. The purpose, he says, is to test your stamina. We don't want it to hurt, he cautions. We're here only to make you stronger. Do what you can do and quit crying already. Couple of elite jounin, honestly!

After the beatings, he has them do floor exercises to regain their flexibility. "Okay, very nice, Shiranui-san. I'm sure you've gotten out of many a class with that trick, but that isn't what we're here to do. Gently, gently. Don't hyper-extend. Come on, farther than that, Namiashi-san farther. It's not going to break, I promise."

If he's a bit easier on Raidou, it's not out of the goodness of his heart--though there is plenty of that, he assures them--it's a necessary and sobering precaution for someone who has just recently had his skull opened up. 

Like a can of beans, Sato-san says. They just pop the lid right off!

"Really," Genma huffs from his seat at the nautilus. "That is fascinating."

Raidou waits until he's safely lowered the weight, then flicks water at him. "Hey, I'm right here."

Genma flashes him a devastatingly handsome grin, and Sato-san looks at the clock. 

"Ten minutes, Namiashi-san, I'd better see those feet moving. Eh? Get it?"

He does, he gets it. It's still not funny. But he's walking, he's walking, while Genma chugs away at the machine, doing flies and presses and pull-downs with the grim, single-minded determination of a man hell-bent on escape.

He is up to five kilograms of weight now, which is still more than Raidou can manage, and hitting ninety-five percent on the peak flow meter. Raidou counts the steps from one end of building's first floor to the other before he gets tired and dizzy and has to sit down. Sometimes he makes it to the bench by the vending machines, but most often, he settles for the floor just outside the gym. The other patients wave and greet him as they go past, while Sato-san looks on and waits for him to pick his sorry ass back up again. It is humbling, to say the least. But who is he to complain? Were it not for his unchecked pride and recklessness, he wouldn't be here in the first place, and neither would Genma.

"Yeah," Genma agrees. "To be honest, the floor wouldn't have been my first choice."

"Hnk."

"Oh, gesundheit. Was that supposed to be a laugh?"

Raidou picks his head up from between his knees. "It was," he says. "Got a problem with it?"

"You're cute, you know." 

Leave it to Genma to make light of things in only the most inappropriate ways. While Raidou is having his good ear checked for signs of damage, he is there anxiously peering for the light at the other side. When there is none, he hems thoughtfully about there being some kind of blockage. Like maybe one of the nurses left a sponge inside? 

"Mocking the hard of hearing," Raidou says ominously. 

"Try shining it in another hole," Genma says. "I think the navel's clear."

Raidou makes a show of tolerating him, because it's not tsukomi otherwise, and as much as Genma bangs on about owing Raidou his life--while Shizune stands by and says nothing--Raidou owes him in equal measure, his life and his sanity. 

His first attack happens on a Tuesday, and he has little recollection of it. He has bits and pieces. Fragments. He remembers being in his room, and looking down at his bed-tray. He remembers vomit, like he could turn inside out, and somebody holding a basin by his head. Too late. He is dizzy. The room looks strange. Has he been poisoned? Is it possible?

“It’s alright,” he hears somebody say. “I’ve got you.”

Then he is seizing. He is gone down a hole. He comes to surrounded by people, cradled by hands, asking about his operation. Where's Genma? Where is he? Is he okay? The poison--

"Hey, hey," Genma says. "It's okay, no poison. Just take it easy." And he is stroking Raidou's neck, he is holding his head and kissing it.

Raidou says, "Don't. I'm throw-up."

"I know you are," Genma soothes. "Whatsamatter? You been hitting the apple juice a little hard there, buddy?"

He'd laugh, but there is vomit in his nose. He isn't drunk, and he hasn't been poisoned. 

They strip the mattress and sponge bathe him; they give him clean sheets, fresh pajamas and something to rinse his mouth; and as they’re quizzing him, about what he remembers and the like, he begins to nod off again. 

Genma holds him and coos to him, there pussy-cat, there there.

Raidou sleeps. He sleeps for two hours. He sleeps for twenty years. He has hardly begun to nod off when the sun catches his eye. He raises a hand and startles something large into the underbrush. A deer, dozing just a yard up the trail. Seems to be an awful damn lot of them, Genma says, doesn't there? Is everything alright?

Yeah, Raidou says, why?

Genma says, you just seem spooked is all.

He wakes up thinking he's home. He'd been up walking all night, through dense, wet greenery; through rich, black loam; through a maze of rough branches and tangled roots to bring his team back safe. He's afraid he's lost them now, because when he last turned back to check, they weren't there.

Genma says it's only been four hours, "But you sure did give us a scare."

"Where are they? Where's Iwashi?"

"He's on deployment."

Really. Raidou's awake now, for real. After all that, he thinks, the little shit could've at least stopped by to visit.

"It's a routine escort mission," Genma says. "He stopped by while you were asleep. Cried like a baby, you know."

Who, Iwashi? 

Genma reaches over. One of the wires has gotten tangled, and it's tugging on Raidou's IV cath. He rearranges these gently and smooths the blanket over Raidou's legs. "Do you remember what happened?"

What happened when? Did something happen? Where's Iwashi? Is Shizune--

"Things are a little hectic right now," Genma says. "But she should be on her way."

"I screwed up," Raidou says, because his hands have gotten tired, and he hadn't realized he was doing it again. Signing, when nobody else but Genma would understand him. "The mission--"

"It's over," Genma says. "It's been a week, you remember? We were injured in battle--"

"A week? Did we fail? Was I in a coma?"

Genma snorts wetly and scrubs a hand across his face. He seems bruised and pale, but there aren't any obvious wounds or bandages. "You had a seizure," he explains. "You're just a little confused now, but it's gonna be okay."

"Is it?"

"It is," he says. "I promise."

Lady Tsunade is none too ‘plussed’ when she blows in, having been paged in the midst of an important debriefing--a nap, Genma translates--but she says not to worry. There's no swelling this time, no bleeding, no signs of herniation. This could be an isolated incident, she says, let's not be disheartened. Eh, Genma?

"Yess'm."

There are tests they'll want to run, of course; but those will come later, when Raidou's a little more sound. For now, it's 'wait and see'. For now, it's back to bed rest, and forget what little progress he's made. 

There is talk now of windows, of axons and shearing. The brain is composed of fatty tissue, soft like tinned meat, like Spam. Genma says if you shake it too hard, it breaks up, and you won't be able to make musubi. You'll have to make an egg scramble instead. How's that sound?

"Nasty," Raidou says. "I prefer omelet rice." 

Twelve hours after, he is finally lucid again. He's able to remember now, able to forget. He's passed the mental exams, and his scans have all come up clear. He's not scrambled, they assure him, just a bit over-easy. 

For two days, while they titrate his meds, he is good. He is an A student. Then it happens again. He has a partial while watching the treadmill monitor. He freezes up mid sentence, twitches once, and paints the hallway with his tea. He yells and he curses at himself and then cries about it. He falls down and bites his tongue. He vomits. He blacks out. He pisses himself. He wakes up on the floor, in the recovery position, on a stretcher, on a gurney, beneath a CT scanner. He is in hell. But he is a soldier. He is a tiger, red in tooth and claw, weighing up to eight-hundred pounds. He has no choice but to get up and keep going under his own power; first his left leg, then his right, breathing steadily in and out, that's the ticket, and if he's good, they'll let him go.

He hasn't been home in almost a month, and he is terrified about not remembering. He lies awake at night and mentally maps out his apartment, his kitchen, his bedroom and all the drawers and chests and closets full of his things. He opens the door to his balcony and sits with his feet touching the tiles. He imagines once he's able to do that, he'll be able find himself and figure out what is missing.

He is bargaining, Sato-san warns him. 

He is treating this as a punishment, when all they want is to keep him safe. Until they get the seizures under control, until the tiger is tamed, he is a danger to himself and cannot be trusted on his own. He knows that. He can be patient. He can out-wait all of them. And if there is one good thing in all this, he supposes, it's that the rehab gym has a punching bag. 

Sato-san watches him snort away at it, and says he is making progress whether he realizes or not. He's getting stronger. Soon, he won't need good old Hiroshi anymore, and won't that be sad?

Raidou pauses mid-strike. "You're name's Hiroshi, huh?"

"Yes, but call me Sato-san. It makes me feel important."

"Right, then, Sato-san." He resumes his cadence. "If it's not too personal, may I ask something?"

A dry laugh. "That depends."

"Have you ever served?"

"Twenty years," Sato-san answers. "I almost made Jounin."

Almost, he says, without even a touch of regret. Raidou's not sure he'd have felt the same.

Sato-san says it wasn't for lack of effort or anything, but when his third child came along, it caused him to stop and reevaluate his life. He says medical school was hard, but worthwhile in the long-run. "What about you, Namiashi-san?"

"No regrets," he huffs, cadence still unbroken. "I'm a Shinobi 'til the day I die."

"Hoh," says Sato-san. "We've got a proud one here."

"Oorah!"

Of course, he'll be singing a very different tune after his workout. He's been three days free of seizures, with two to go before discharge, but his head still clangs for every bit he's overdone things. He thinks black thoughts while lying in his darkened room, and lies when Genma asks if he's alright. He is not alright. He is tired. He is frustrated. He is worried by his weakness, and wonders: what if it never gets any better? What if he is stuck like this? A Shinobi 'til he dies? Hah, you silly cunt, let's hear another one.

But he is looking forward. On the day of their release, he salutes the doorway to their empty room and says good bloody riddance. The nurses share his sentiment, he is sure.

Shizune, having finally pressured Raidou into accepting a wheelchair, just this once, follows them home and sets up a pot of tea. Raidou sits at the kotatsu, cradling his head while Genma watches, frowning. 

"You look like that statue," he murmurs. "How are you feeling?"

"Rodin?"

"That's the guy," says Genma. "You want anything with your tea?"

Morphine Sulfate, Codeine, tincture of Opium. "Ginger," he says. "D'you need me to show you where--"

"I've got it," Shizune calls out.

Genma keeps a wary eye on the doorway. "Maybe I should go--"

"Stay," Shizune says. "I told you, I've. Got. It."

Raidou covers his eyes.

She shuffles back into the room, purposefully making enough noise to alert him, and sets a tray on the table. "Don't mind," she says. "I just wanted a chance to snoop around your kitchen." She sets a cup and saucer in front of Raidou. "Sencha with candied ginger, and your sister-in-law should be bringing by some groceries."

He murmurs 'thank you' and takes a sip.

"I hope I made it strong enough," Shizune says.

It's fine, he says, and thanks. For everything.

Shizune sets up a token protest: it's her job, and Raidou's not about to go and get all emotional, is he?

He says it depends on what his kitchen looks like.

"Eehhh," Shizune says.

"That's what I thought."

Genma says, "Go easy, Rai-chan. We only just got home."

Shizune adds he's supposed to be resting, and don't go hounding Lady Tsunade about signing off on him before his leave is up, no matter how good he thinks he feels. Same goes for Genma, she says, only don't use this as an excuse to loaf around all day. The sun is out and it's important that he maintain his standard of living: eat well, keep up with his exercises, and finish the antibiotics. Yes, the full course. She then reviews Raidou's medication schedule; what to do in case of a bad reaction; what to do and what not to do in case he goes into seizure; in case of migraine; in case of any numbness or tingling; what to do in case he forgets, and so on. 

To Genma, she says all this, and he just nods along. Yes, of course, he's got this.

"Water and feed once a day," he says. "And in case of constipation, jam one of these--"

Raidou plucks the bottle from his fingers and sets it back down.

"What?" He says. "It's a supp--"

"I know what it is," Raidou says. "We don't need a demonstration."

"Duties," Genma says.

Shizune assures them they'll do fine.

 


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Genma lies beside him in bed--his own bed, finally, with space enough for both of them--all the lights out and tarnished sunset peering through a gap in the curtains, and asks if Raidou still hears the ocean in his head. He says he wants to put his ear up to Raidou's ear like a seashell and listen.

The humor smarts, but it's comforting that Genma's still Genma. Raidou asks if he's been back at his apartment at all. Has he still got an apartment? 

"Mailman seems to think so. I mean, as much as I'm never there, he keeps sending me bills."

“I was being serious,” Raidou says--and when is he ever not? "When's the last time you cleaned out your refrigerator?"

Genma looks at him. That look.

"What? Is that an unreasonable question?"

"We almost just died," Genma says.

"Alright," says Raidou. "But it's been a good month, hasn't it? Hasn't it?"

"We only just got home. Anyway, I cleaned it out before we left." He shifts over and snuggles down into the crook of Raidou's arm. "What about yours? Eh? You remember that take-out we had--there was like half a duck sitting in there."

"Oh."

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"I'm sure I didn't."

Genma pokes him in the hip. "You wanna bet?" Again, he pokes Raidou. "You wanna bet?"

Raidou reaches over to still him, and now he remembers. He remembers lying curled in bed with him just like this, laughing and naked. The mission was a routine one, so they weren't at all worried. They spent the day lounging together, tying up loose ends, making love. Dinner was take-out: whole roast duck, pillowy steam buns, fried green beans. They ate by the balcony door, by lantern light, drank cold sake, then went to bed early. They spent the night together, woke up together, and walked together to HQ, and now Raidou's asking about Genma's apartment--about his empty refrigerator--as if none of it had ever happened.

"There was ice-cream in the freezer," Genma says. "You think it's any good by now?"

Raidou settles deeper into the duvet. He tugs Genma's arm around him, closer, tighter, and says, "I'm positive it's not."

\--It's nineteen hundred hours, the eighteenth December, and there have been no casualties this week. Though the fugitive Uchiha has still not been located, there have been no other desertions. Ofc. Tatami reports there has been no activity surrounding Suna, no signs of insurgency, and that he misses his poker buddies. All is calm here and we are doing well. Regards, 1st Lt. Namiashi Raidou-- 

Oh-six-hundred, Raidou wakes with a stale mouth and a thumping headache. Genma brings him juice and rice-porridge with his medication, and replaces his ice-packs every hour as they melt. He checks on Raidou's scabs, makes sure he's not picking at them, and helps him to the toilet when he needs it. He even cheers him on in there, despite Raidou's protests that things will go a lot easier if he doesn't talk.

Genma laughs. "Everybody poops," he says. "Anyway, considering how much of your asshole I've seen in the past several--"

"Go. Away."

"I'm supposed to keep an ear out in case."

Raidou drops his head to his hands, defeated. 

His next few days are better, and he and Genma have managed to hammer out some sort of routine, but the headaches have not given ground one bit. Shizune warns him that he's still got healing to do. He must give himself time. Stop counting the days, stop eyeing the calendar. He is not pregnant, and there is no set due-date. There is only the window, the putative one during which most of his progress is expected to happen, and the real one that looks out over his balcony. 

After days spent huddled at the kotatsu, nursing his head and listening to endless books on tape--because the TV is still too stimulating--Raidou thinks he prefers the balcony. It lies in shadow this time of year, and he can watch the birds outside without fear of being blinded. A couple of jays fight over his potted juniper, and Raidou sips hot tea while Genma folds the laundry, shirtless. He's put on a bit of weight since the Chuunin exams, and Raidou thinks he looks better now. More substantial. He's got an arse on him, and now Raidou's forgotten all about the birds. He's forgotten his tea halfway to his mouth.

Bad move, now Genma thinks he's having a spell. "Oi, you alright?"

Raidou mops at the table-top with his sleeve. "Me? I'm super."

"Oh, you are, are you?" Genma snaps open a pillow-case, his muscles dancing with amusement, and Raidou hasn't got the heart to tell him he's folding everything wrong. Based on the way he's smirking, he probably knows it anyway.

With a snort, Raidou resumes folding the latest in a series of misshapen paper cranes. Conversationally, he asks if Genma remembered to deposit their paychecks. They've got a stack of them since coming home, including hazard pay, and he'd just feel better with everything squared away.

Genma flaps open a fitted sheet. "I said I'd go this afternoon."

"Did you, now?"

He's still puzzling over the sheet, mushing in the corners until it's more or less a shape, and he is in no hurry. He says, "I did. Just now."

Right. "You know, I could go," Raidou says. "In fact, maybe I ought to."

"You sure you're up to it?"

He's never been less sure. But he's bored, and he feels guilty just sitting here staring at Genma's arse all day; let alone while Genma does all the work. 

"You remember to sign everything?" he asks on his way to the bedroom.

"Yeah, yeah."

"You're not just yeah yeah-ing me." This, as he fumbles around looking for something decent to wear. "'Cause they won't take it unless it's properly signed."

"Yeah, yeah." 

"Oh, you did not!"

Genma catches him just as he comes stalking around the corner, grinning like a jackass. His hands are chilled from outside, but the rest of him is quite warm. Raidou forgets what he's doing just then; his shirt, the bank, the deposit. For a moment, he even forgets his head.

Just short of their lips touching, Genma stops and asks if he's okay.

"I told you already--"

"No, I meant with this."

Because it's been over month, or possibly never in his mind, and this has not escaped Genma's attention.

"It's okay," Raidou says. "Just a quick one."

Genma pecks him on the lips. "Another?"

He pretends to think it over, and really, he is not that forgetful. "Put it in your pocket for later," he says. "I'll be back. I promise." 

Genma hesitates before letting him go; like there's something weighing on him, and three guesses as to what that is.

"I can do this," Raidou assures him. "It's just around the corner, alright?"

"Right." He gives Raidou a light push. "Oh--and would you stop by the combini on your way back? I'm in the mood for something salty."

"Of course." And now he really is leaving. He's taking his hand from Genma's pocket. He's backing out the door. He's backing _into_ the door-jamb, laughing, and then he's out. 

He's got his shoes on. He's got both checks and their signed slips, their passbooks and his carryall. The walk is not terribly long, but it's a bright and sunny one. The wind is cutting. He draws his cap down over his eyes and schools himself. He can do this. He will. He must. It's been over a month now, and it's not as if he's never had a headache before. Remember, Namiashi-san, this is concussion number three; you ought to be well versed by now.

After the throbbing starts, comes the nausea, and with the nausea comes the weakness. He's going to have to pace himself, but he must also make it back quickly. He must be prepared to run into people he knows, people who haven't seen him since his injury; he must be graceful when he does. Neutral face, neutral voice, neutral greetings. Pretend if he must. Everything is fine now. He's working hard on his recuperation. He ought to be back at work soon. Yes, Genma's doing well, and he sends his regards. Yes, yes, a receipt please, and you as well.

He's alright at the bank, but as soon as he steps out, the throbbing amps up. He's still not far from home, though. Just one more trip, he can make it. 

Into the combini. Need salty things. Nod at clerk, smile. Pick up juice, crackers, crisps; pick up fancy chocolates, seaweed snacks; pick up condoms, onigiri, muscle mag and lube. Don't smile at clerk. Avoid any uncomfortable eye contact. Take change, don't count it. Make it home in time to vomit, leave groceries everywhere, leave shoes. Hit toilet on first try. Success!

Genma says don't worry about it, and does he want to go to the hospital? 

No. No, no, no, he signs. Let him stay here. Let him just lie down.

Genma's worried, obviously, but he's not going to argue Raidou's wishes. He just sits with him on the bathroom floor and takes care of him. He cleans him up and brings him drugs, brings him seltzer water with anise, brings him cold compresses and a pillow. He walks around the apartment and covers the windows, draws the shades, dims the lights, then he returns to sit some more.

He is careful not to bring up the 'S-word', but Raidou knows why it is he stands guard with such single-minded intensity. 

"S'alright," he tells him. "You can leave. I'll be fine."

Genma strokes his back. Feels nice. "You said that last time, though."

"I promise," he says. "I just need to rest. Just let me rest."

Let him feel normal for just a minute, please. Just go, damn it! 

Of course, when he does go--as far as the next room--Raidou feels terrible about it. He thinks about what it would be like if he weren't there. If he were to leave and never come back. If he were to have died on that mission. And Raidou thinks he'd like to have died as well. Pathetic of him. To have survived, for what? The tiles bite painfully into his left hip, so he turns over on his back and remembers the condoms. He remembers the hot skin of Genma's belly against his back, fucking the night before a long mission, and he wants to hate himself. He's gone and spoiled everything already. If only he hadn't gone out. If only he hadn't gone into the forest. If only--

"How are you feeling?" Genma asks through the door. "Can I come in?"

"Mm." He pulls the compress down over his eyes. It's too late for 'if only', too soon for what will be or should be. He must concentrate on what is. The drugs are starting to take effect and soon, relief. A respite. 

He lets Genma undress him and support him to bed, where he sleeps until 16:30. He wakes up feeling groggy, unsure of what day it is, and surprisingly ravenous. Genma brings him soup and crackers, holds an ice-pack over his eyes, and offers to run him a bath. He declines. He remains hunched up in the dark like a gargoyle, and only once night has fallen does he creep outside onto the balcony for some air. It is Saturday, the twenty-third of December.

He has made it through another day, and below, the town is hung with strings of glowing fairy lights, globe ornaments, red velvet ribbons and bows. He never believed in Santa Claus, and his family was never big on holidays, but he's studied his history lessons. He's cussed out his fair share of light-strands and bungled his way through a tree or two, and he remembers Aoba droning on at him over beers one night about the reason for the season and girlfriends and such, and how it's important not to be alone. 

He pictures himself saying something like, 'I'm not alone, I've got you,' and Aoba nudging up his spectacles, saying something Aoba-like.

'I love you man, but you're spoiling my chances here.'

He'd said something back like, 'Chance favors the prepared mind,' and then something about a wingman eventually flying on his own. Perhaps with that bearded specimen by the bar over there. 

Genma calls out from the sitting room, "Oi, you're letting all the cold in!"

"Sorry. Why don't you come outside?" He can almost hear Genma's expression of disgust. 

He must like to think Raidou's mad. But he takes a ginger step towards the threshold. He's holding a tray full of plates and mugs: onigiri, crackers, wasabi peas, chocolate and mikan sections; hot toddies with cinnamon sticks; sugar cookies. Diabetes, Raidou thinks, but no. Not tonight. No judgments. No 'just trying to help.' He's been on the other side of 'just trying to help', and he knows it never ever does.

He lifts a mug from the tray and cradles it towards his lips. He can't smell, but he can taste: spicy chai with coconut milk, and just a hint of whiskey. Enough to give it a bite. 

"Oh," Genma says beside him. "I think I just saw a snowflake!"

"Are you sure it's not dandruff?"

Genma reaches down and flips the tag out of his jumper. "It's flurrying," he insists. "Are you warm enough?"

Raidou smiles and holds open the duvet. "Plenty warm," he says. "Why don't you come and join me?"

His dreams that night are full of explosions. 

They turn in early, despite Raidou having gotten plenty of sleep that afternoon, and they lie there for a while, watching the sky outside their window. It's turned windy, and the air scurries frigidly against the panes.

Genma asks if Raidou had a good shopping trip.

He says, "I'm not sure I remember." But he is now certain Genma went and sorted the groceries, and that's why he's asking.

Genma leans up on his elbows. "I still owe you that kiss," he says. "How's your head feeling?"

"Better."

"Still nauseous?" 

Raidou turns onto his side and quietly impels his dick to get hard. Chance favors the prepared mind, and he wants to fuck. He wants to make love the way he's dreamed they used to do. He is standing at the end of a long bridge, at the edge of a precipice, and Genma's at the other side watching him, waiting for him to make the first move and risk plummeting.

Raidou lays a hand on his stomach, over leagues, over kilometers, over the dizzying expanse of his futon, and Genma reaches out to pull him across. It's alright, he wants to say. He was afraid before, but he's not now.

Then the stadium collapses on top of them; again, and again, and again. The cement splits with a deafening crack, and he watches Genma slowly bleed out into the dirt beneath. He holds him in his hands and feels the life leave him, oh god, oh please. He wakes up, no, oh god, oh no. The sheets are clinging to him, and he is drenched in sweat. It's pitch black all around, and he is gasping like a wounded rabbit, oh god. For a moment, all he hears is the percussive gallop of his own heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, and then a sleepy murmur, a heavy stirring beside him. 

Genma's awake and reaching for him, shushing at him like a cornered animal, and while part of him wants to be offended, the rest finds this oddly soothing. He's gotten himself all worked up over nothing. A bad dream. He can't even remember what it was about, but doesn't he feel silly?

Genma rubs his back and offers to fetch him a towel.

"There's one by the bed," Raidou says, but Genma's up already, shuffling towards the bathroom. "Where d'you--"

"That's the sex towel," he calls back, pausing to take what has to be the loudest piss ever at three a.m. and then not washing his hands. "Trust me, you'll want a clean one."

Raidou flops back with a groan. He doesn't need to have an argument right now, so he lets Genma look after him without a word of complaint, and tries his best to settle down. Genma's out again almost as soon as he hits the pillow, but Raidou struggles. He stares out the window. He lets his mind wander. He contemplates going to the kitchen for some milk. He contemplates the clock. 

He resists the urge to toss and turn and fight with the blankets, to roll around the futon like he would while sleeping alone, or to wake Genma and demand his attention again. That, he chides himself, is not being fair. It's not like him to be so needy. He is alright, isn't he? He is moving forward without looking back. He is closing his eyes. He is breathing slow, relaxed breaths. He is thinking about what he'll make for breakfast. He is thinking about how so very picky Genma can be. He is thinking about his mouth, his lips and his tongue; about the way his cheeks hollow; the juice that runs down his chin, and how he loves it. He is thinking about the fact that they've got a sex towel, and they've each got their own side of the bed. Their bed. His and Genma's bed. And it's with that thought, that Raidou falls briefly and fitfully back to sleep. 

Over the next few hours, he will wake several more times: sure he's felt the bed move, the floor shake, the windows rattle. But it's always quiet and still. Genma's there each and every time he checks, and he's still sleeping, still alive and breathing, when Raidou finally gives up and creeps out of bed. He is tired of feeling tired, and his body aches for having lain on it so long, so he paces the apartment and tidies whatever he thinks needs tidying; he sets up a pot of coffee and readies the rice-cooker; scratches away at a crossword puzzle; says good morning to reality again. Outside, the wind still scurries frigidly, and somewhere in the unit below, somebody else is walking around. Somebody else is awake as early as he is, and they are probably making breakfast, probably getting ready to go to work. 

In another hour the sun will be up. Normally, Raidou might head out for a run, or some terrible coffee at the news-shop. If Kotetsu and Izumo are still up and working, which they so often are these days, he might stop by and give them a little good-natured shit-talking; or he might offer to help out. If he receives orders, he'll have maybe half an hour to grab his go bag and gather his people. He might be paired with Aoba or Genma or Shizune again. He might be with a different cell altogether, or he might be solo. He might get on Iwashi about trying to walk ahead of the group. He might tell him horror stories about why it's a bad idea. Maybe he'll tell him what it's like to wake up in the hospital; to wake up just as they're cutting your uniform away; to sit at your kitchen table and feel where the staples had been. Twenty little knots of scar tissue. Twenty new leopard spots that tingle to the touch.

Genma catches him at it. "Don't pick."

"Eh?" Raidou looks up from yesterday's paper. He'd heard him coming, he realizes, but it hadn't quite registered. Not good. Must be more attentive from now on. "I wasn't." 

He answers with a yawn on his way past, lazily scratching his belly. "How long've you been up?"

Raidou shrugs. Without work, his entire schedule's been thrown off. "It's morning at any rate." He's done two word puzzles, and breakfast is already set aside. He follows Genma into the kitchen and finds him pouring creamer into a mug.

"You didn't have to do all this," he says, meaning the food, the tidying, the coffee. "I'm starting to think you don't need me anymore."

He's teasing, but it does get Raidou's back up just a bit. "If I wanted a housekeeper, I'd have paid somebody." He carries the breakfast tray out to the table and returns to swat Genma across the bum with his newspaper.

"Missed a cheek," he says. 

Raidou is busy wiping up stray splashes of cream, sweeping spilt sugar granules into the sink. These things, he does automatically, without judgment. It is part of their morning rhythm, whether he remembers consciously or not. 

"I never miss," he says, while taking down a clean mug. "Go on and sit."

"But it's all uneven now. You can't just leave it like that."

"Fine," Raidou says, reaching out to swat him again. Open palm, bare hand. "Now, hup. Breakfast!"

Breakfast is rice with kimchi, rolled omelet, herring fillets and natto, which Genma eyes dubiously across the table; like he's not quite sure he trusts it. 

"I thought you liked natto?" 

Genma looks at Raidou, chopsticks poised halfway to his lips, like he's just suggested a steaming hot dish of live earthworms. "Is that what that is? I thought the dog farted." 

"A simple no-thanks would do." Raidou pulls the dish over to his plate and starts helping himself.

"Sorry," Genma sighs. "I mean, I wasn't going to say anything, what with your being hard of smelling and all--"

Raidou reaches for the mayonnaise. "No-one's forcing you to eat it," he says. 

He has a momentary vision of himself wrestling Genma across the floor. They used to do that, he remembers. Genma used to pick him up over his shoulder and flip him onto the bed. He'd say he was going for the ropes, and Raidou would laugh and roll quickly out of the way. 

"No-one's forcing you either," Genma says, and that tears it.

Raidou gets up and casually steps over the table.

"Shit, Gojira!"

"Yeah, you go ahead and run." He drops down, straddles Genma's hips, and pins him in a single move. Too easy. "Oh come on," he says, loosely flopping one dead-fish hand in front of his face.

"Not doin' it for ya?"

"No," Raidou says. "Do anything for you?"

Genma grins. "Back that train up a little and I'll let you know."

"Tss, in front of the breakfast table? I'm aghast."

Genma pouts up at him "Yeah, well you shoulda thought of that before you jumped me."

"Sorry about that," Raidou says. "Your ribs--"

"They're fine," Genma says. "It's your head I'm more worried about."

It's fine, is what he'd like to say, but he knows that Genma knows he'd be lying. Even now, his eye aches. Even now, he is conscious that one wrong move could ruin both their days. He doesn't have to like it: it just is.

Genma catches him at the split second his face goes all serious, before he himself has realized it, and says, "here, gimme a kiss."

Raidou drops down all fours, and Genma follows the line of his body with sleepy eyes, with parted lips and tilted hips. The sun has fully risen now, pale and cold behind the curtains, and breakfast sits forgotten on the table. Raidou moves in slowly, and he assures Genma that if last night did not kill him, surely nothing can. 

His being here, alive and talking, ought to be proof enough. He is stronger than anyone knows. Stronger than Gojira. They keep nuking him and he keeps coming back, more terrible and more unhinged than ever.

"Oi, you're still doing it."

"I am not," Raidou says.

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm not."

"You are, quit it!" But Genma's laughing now. "Get off me, oi. No, wait--lean back--"

Raidou says, "I ought to kancho you, instead."

"Then why don't you?"

Raidou kisses him. Gently at first, then more passionately, then gently again. Genma's hands alight on his hips and slide up around his waist, up under his shirt and over his obliques, fanning to encompass the spread of his lats, the soft shifting of his weight. A monster he may be, enormous and smoking and full of terror, but when Genma's hands encircle him, when he rolls him over and sinks between his thighs, when his mouth finds the tender spot where his neck and shoulder join, Raidou feels as rare and delicate as a flower. He feels light and loved, as if nothing in the world can harm him.

Later that morning, sometime after history's longest breakfast, it starts to snow. Genma about falls over the balcony rail in his rush to bring the futons in, and he's stomping around out there, hissing about the cold while Raidou watches from the comfort of his kotatsu. 

"Don't get up," Genma says, and predictably, Raidou does. 

He scrambles, stumbles and falls over, helpless. His leg's gone to sleep, and Genma, ever caring, simply steps over him with the first arm-load of laundry. 

There's already a faint dusting atop the rails and the planters when Raidou finally sorts himself out enough to bring in the rest, and it is bitter cold. He slams the door shut quickly, and stomps into the bedroom where Genma is making a hopeless tangle of the clean covers. Raidou has but to raise his eyebrows, and Genma lets the bundle fall slack. He's got him trained well, as Shizune once teased. Sheets are to be properly folded, always, and kept inside their matching pillow-cases. He hasn't got a lot of storage space, so everything has to be just-so. Slippers go here, shoes go there, and please put that back where you found it--you never know who could drop by.

Genma's lying across the half-made futon with the object in question--a stonking big, matte black dildo with realistic veins and everything--cradled against his breast. He says, "If they ask, tell them it's a fishing trophy."

"I think they'd know the difference," Raidou says. "Give it here."

Genma hesitates with it just out of reach. "You know, I have half a mind to be jealous."

"How can you have half a mind?" Raidou wiggles his fingers. "Genma--"

"Raidou."

"May I have it, please?"

"For what purpose?" He asks. "And don't tell me something like you use it to stop drafts coming in. This thing's got a story, and I demand to know." 

If it has, Raidou can't remember. It's been sitting in a box for several months, unloved, since before the chuunin exams, he believes. And the only reason he lets Genma carry on with it as he does--at one point kissing it, and then slapping himself across the face with the shaft--is knowing himself, he'd no doubt had the presence of mind to boil it before storing it away.

"It's just a hunk of silicone," he says. "And if you hand it over nicely, I might show you." He's teasing, of course. Back in the box it goes along with his other toys, about which he intends to sit Genma down for a nice, serious discussion later.

"And here people think I'm the perv."

"You are," Raidou assures him. "You're a total pig, but that's why I like you."

Genma pokes him in the stomach. "Come on, let's go check on the snow."

"What, it's not like it's going anywhere."

Genma grabs him before he can suggest one more chore that needs doing, and pulls him back into the sitting room. It's snowing in earnest now, tiny drifts lining the window panes and the sills outside; it's begun to pile up inside the planters and on the ledge of the railing, drifts collecting in the corners and on the rooftops across the street. They sit and watch from the comfort of the kotatsu: Raidou going over his calendar and his many lists, Genma dozing beneath the quilt, his hot head nestled heavy on Raidou's thigh.

He is comfortable, far too comfortable, and just as he's reaching for the tv remote for a bit of distraction, the power goes out with a loud, terrifying zap. Silence. No hum from the wall heater or refrigerator, no read-out on the VCR, and only residual warmth from the kotatsu. Raidou, doggedly, presses the power button one more time. Nothing. They have returned to the dark ages, and it won't be long he fears before Genma starts suggesting they burn things to keep from freezing to death.

Genma pokes his head out. "Oi, did you--"

"Nope," Raidou says, resigned. "Power's out."

"No."

"'Fraid so."

"Nooooo--"

"Oh, come on now," Raidou chides around the end of his biro. "Are you a baby or a ninja? Suck it up."

A growl from under the quilt. "You suck it up. You know I'm sensitive to changes in temperature." 

Raidou sneaks a hand under the quilt and strokes Genma's hair to a chorus of grumbles and hisses. "So delicate," he says. "A regular hot-house flower."

"S'right."

"You know, we're going to have to shovel the walk later. Both of us."

"Can't make me."

"It's your civic duty," Raidou says. "Duty? Eh?"

Genma crawls out from under the quilt, deadpan and disheveled, and slinks off muttering something about furniture.

"We're not burning anything!" Raidou barks after him. "No candles, no fire."

"Found 'em."

"It's the middle of the day," Raidou says, getting up to follow him around and make sure he's not setting the curtains ablaze. "Here now, how many d'you think we need?"

He's got tea-lights lined up along the counters, the range-top, and inside the sink; tapers stuck inside empty beer bottles, and a couple clustered inside a jelly-jar. He's even got the kerosene lantern out, to Raidou's horror. 

"It'll be romantic," he insists. "Haven't you ever wanted to fill a room with candles? We could break out some sake and just cozy up...." 

"Just be careful," Raidou says, dutifully removing the napkin holder from the counter. "Don't forget we'll have to put all these out before we go."

"Go?" Genma flicks the lighter. "Go where?" 

He's just touched the flame to the first wick when there's a solid knock at the door. Shortly, Aoba comes waltzing into the kitchen waving a torch about. He's bundled up like an arctic explorer, only the lenses of his spectacles showing, and his boots are simply crusted with snow. 

"Everything alright in here?"

They goggle at him a moment. It's hardly been ten minutes since the grid went down. 

"Oh, right," he winces. "Shoes!"

He's gone into the entryway, and Genma calls out after him. "Yo, since when d'you have a key? You don't just barge in like that!"

"Sorry, sorry," he calls back. "I didn't see boots outside the door so--"

Genma's eyebrows do a slow lift, and Raidou cringes. He'd forgotten about the signal. 

"Well, congratulations," Aoba says. "We've got a generator going down at HQ, go on and grab your coats."

Genma looks dubious. He clearly wants to say something, like he's worried, or it's too soon. Too something. He stands frozen at the threshold with his vest halfway on, and his boots in a sad tumble by his feet, staring.

"It's okay," Raidou reassures him, "You'll do most of the shoveling, while I stand back and micro manage."


	3. Chapter 3

Just like that, the honeymoon's over. Raidou is not exactly supposed to be working yet, but he is glad to be out in some capacity; no matter how Genma sits and pouts. It's warm and cheery up at the standby station, and it's like the past three months never happened. There is hot coffee and tea waiting for them, electric braziers to warm their hands and feet, and with every outgoing and incoming shift of people, somebody brings back food. Asuma is first and last to volunteer, since he's forbidden to smoke around Genma, and he comes back quite a bit later with a group of red-cheeked and gangling junior Shinobi in tow.

"They were cold," he says, flat out challenging someone to raise objections. "I don't see a sign anywhere that says jounin only."

"Actually, there was a sign," Aoba says. "But somebody keeps removing it."

At least half of the juniors chime in, Kiba at the head of the group, saying they've been outside diligently working since breakfast and ought to be allowed. They'll keep to themselves. It's just for a little while. They're not kids anymore, and they know how to behave! If they're not given permission--and donuts--then they'll be forced to mutiny.

"We're not having that," Asuma sighs. "Go warm up and grab yourselves a snack."

"Typhoon of ninety-one all over again," Aoba says, then turns to elbow Genma in the ribs. "Ten years ago."

Perversely, Raidou remembers. They'd spent the better part of the day knocking on doors, evacuating people to higher ground, posting guard against looters, and finally fleeing the rising waters themselves with whomever else had elected to stay behind. If he recalls, they'd all made jounin by then.

Aoba persists. "I've still got that mix-tape you made. Do you remember? With the hand-made, photo-copy booklet?"

Genma sits back and licks his teeth, Aoba's first and final warning to shut up.

"It must've taken you days. You remember? Cutting out all those magazine--"

Genma turns and stuffs his half-eaten melon-pan into Aoba's mouth. Raidou watches from a safe remove as the two carry on poking and snarking: Aoba, eating the already-been-chewed bun entirely unfazed, while Genma draws an invisible barrier with his coffee stirrer.

"Look here, oi." He flicks the end of Aoba's nose. "The area from here to here is mine. You don't cross it. You don't talk. Understand?"

Blank stare. 

If Raidou were at all in the mood, he'd reach from behind and snatch Aoba's hitai-ate straight, like he used to when they were kids. But he's tired from this morning's exercise and tired from the medication, so he sits back and waits for the fireworks, resolved to lift a finger only in case of dire emergency. 

Genma says, "Go get me another melon-pan."

Further blank staring from Aoba, and it's too much to resist poking him. 

"Go," Raidou says. "Do as you're told."

Aoba turns on him. "What? Are you kidding me?"

Somebody chimes in from across the room, go on, do it! Be decent, man!

"This is abuse," Aoba grumbles. "You all saw what happened...."

"You're his senpai, for shame!"

Genma's pokerface is impenetrable. He sits, arms crossed, regally sucking the end of his coffee stirrer, while Aoba slinks to the service table, looking every inch the whipped puppy, and god help him if that was the last melon-pan.

"You three are such weirdos," Anko mutters from behind the couch. "Is this some kind of perverted s&m thing?"

Genma crosses his legs smartly at the knee. "Only if you see it that way."

She says, "It is, isn't it?" 

Aoba returns with a plate full of pastries, and truly he is a mensch, a prince among men. He's good people, Aoba; would give you the shirt off his back without a moment's hesitation. But if he thinks Genma's about to sit there shamefaced and apologetic while everybody falls all over themselves thanking him, he is severely mistaken. Raidou feels a bit bad fanning the flames, and so he quashes the impulse to ask for a cup of tea. 

Meanwhile, Genma's milking his whole little frigid ojou act for all it's worth, directing Aoba with his chin to place her royal majesty's tray upon the sideboard so she may select from it at leisure. Anko and Asuma look on with equal measures admiration and amusement, and Raidou looks on with pride.

"I hope this suits the lady," Aoba huffs, daring to seat himself without permission. "I'm not getting up again."

At last, Genma relaxes and helps himself to a pastry. Leaning forward, his eyes do a slow inventory of the room: who's there, who's doing what, who's talking to whom and for what purpose. Who's missing....

"Kakashi's out on patrol," Asuma fills in.

Of course. The weather's not truly miserable until Kakashi's out in it. Genma hisses through a mouthful of melon-pan. "Never learns."

"He's making you look bad," Aoba says. "And you're just going to sit here and allow it."

"Did I say you could talk?"

"Ha-hah, nope!"

"'K, help me out a second." Genma reaches for the card table in front of them, and starts listlessly rifling through the detritus of magazines, newspapers, and old paper-backs for ammunition; because it won't do to simply swat Aoba with last February's Art Review; he must maximize the level of threat in a show of mutually assured destruction, otherwise it's meaningless to try. "First rule, use only what you find on this table. Second rule--"

"Hold on," says Aoba.

"No. Second rule, no jutsu." He finds a few rubber bands, and to Raidou's growing horror, some paper clips. "Third rule, we fight to the death."

In extreme short order, both he and Aoba have fashioned themselves a pair of slingshots, and Raidou is surrounded. "Has it really been ten years?" He chides.

"Eleven," says Genma. "But you're only as old as you feel." He knocks a wasabi pea in his sling, and takes slow aim around the room.

Aoba's taken aim at Genma, but he's got Raidou down-range and is steadfastly ignoring his signals. "Locked on target, prepare to--"

It's over in seconds, the twang heard round the world.

"--fuck!" 

Aoba's hit. Genma got him dead-center in the forehead, before he could even think to react.

"Man down," says Anko, "man down!"

"Go hard or go home," Genma says. "Don't start shit you're not prepared to handle."

Raidou catches Aoba before things have a chance to escalate, and holds him off while the juniors all watch and shake their heads. "Put the claws away, now," he grunts. "Grown men, the lot of you."

"At least--let me--" Aoba claps his hands together. Sulfur billows behind him, everybody stares. "Shadow-clone. Now what are you gonna do? Huh?" 

Genma leaps up, too late. The second Aoba's got hold of his toque, and is playing keep away behind the couch back, just beyond Genma's reach.

"Who's pathetic now?" he roars. "Now who's the nerd!"

Behind him, with more stealth than Raidou would've given him credit for, Asuma looms up and carefully plucks the hat from the clone's fingers. "You both are," he says, and after a moment's thought, tosses it to Raidou. 

Message received, loud and clear: control your people. Raidou shoves the toque back into Genma's hands and then quietly hustles Aoba off towards the cloak room, preempting him with: "Doesn't matter who started it, be the bigger man and end it." 

Though Raidou outranks him in age only, he goes without argument, addressing the room at large. "I'll write to you. Please take care of my wife while I'm gone."

Raidou pulls his own cloak from the rack, expecting a what-for from Genma, but getting only a wary eyeball. It should only be a while, he motions, and then to Aoba, "You haven't got a wife. Have you?"

Aoba flips up his hood. "No, but there's this lady I've been talking to--really nice. Tall."

They continue out onto the breezeway, nattering on about this and that, while they stomp their feet back into chilly boots; then once more unto the breach, my friends, once more. The snow is just about deep enough to leave decent footprints, and as they get further down the lane, they meet up with Teuchi-san who speculates they may get half a meter or more. He's just gotten his generator up, and his stand will soon be doing brisk business. They help him put a few boxes back and sweep up around the chairs, then leave with promises to return for a hot bowl or two later. Raidou's head is twinging already, and the tears freeze to his lashes as they walk.

"I think we need to get you inside," Aoba says. "Or Genma really will kill me."

"Don't you want to write your name in the snow?"

Down the avenue behind them, the street is lively with voices and boots squeaking on snow. Everyone's come outside to check on one another, to talk endlessly about the weather--exciting news while it's falling, and something to share complaints about as it later turns to slush--and Aoba's reaching out to herd him in, as if he is a prisoner out on furlough. As if he'd really try and escape. 

"And freeze off my precious jewels?" Aoba cups at the front of his cloak and cringes.

"Pain is temporary, failure's forever."

"Which is exactly how long I plan on keeping my dick, thank you very much." 

Raidou laughs, tenderly cupping his left eye.

"You really sure you're alright?" 

Raidou waves him off, it's just his prosthetic tends to play up when it drops below freezing. The headache will come of a certainty, but he's not yet ready to acknowledge it. "Your lady friend," he asks, "What's she do?"

"Oh, she's in real estate! Though she's been hoping to settle down for a while now. I figure once the kids come along--"

"Kids," Raidou interrupts. "Here now, don't you remember that talk they gave us about wearing a rubber?"

"Heck yeah," Aoba says. "I'm wearing one now! Anyway, what about you?"

"I'm wearing four."

Aoba grins at him. "No, I mean with Genma--" and knowing exactly where Raidou might take that, he swipes at the air, amending: "You've moved in together, I mean, so things must be going well."

"I suppose," Raidou says, although they haven't made it official as such. 

Aoba swipes at his spectacles, which promptly fog over again. "Ah, what a perfectly Raidou-like response."

"So, real-estate," Raidou says, attempting in a perfectly Raidou-like way to dodge the subject. 

It is piercing cold, and he wars with his own better judgment, his throbbing temples and aching eye-socket. The swirling flakes certainly paint a charming picture, and the sky is like mother-of-pearl, but there is little if anything that needs doing just yet. There are plenty of other Shinobi out and about, and as they exchange perfunctory greetings, hand off odd-jobs helping l.o.ls up treacherous sidewalks and herding stray home-alones to the community center on thirty-six-hundred, Aoba dictates a bloody novel on the art of brokerage, down-payments, estate-planning and such while Raidou nods along.

If Raidou continues saving, Aoba claims, he ought to have his first million by age forty. More than enough to buy a house. 

Raidou is helping an old man lift his oxygen tank up the steps, and ducking into the warmly lit lobby of the community center, he snuffles and says, "I suppose."

He hasn't dwelt on his future of late; though he is sensible enough to have a five year plan, a robust savings account and retirement portfolio, it seems rather fruitless in his line of work. It seems fruitless to set in order affairs for a family he never planned on having; for a life he never anticipated living into old age; for a partner he worries will die just as early as he might. The community center echoes with comfortable voices, laughter, and the dizzying buzz of a tube-light dying. The head of the neighborhood association plies them with coffee and donuts, and Raidou wars between his overheating body and the promise of icy winds outside. 

He'd love to stay, he says, but he fears they'll be needed elsewhere. Everything's alright here, though? Have they got enough supplies? Have they got working heaters and carbon monoxide detectors? Ah, no, it's quite alright. An old injury, hardly bothers him at all. Hardly at all. None taken, and you're a dear for asking. 

Aoba ventures to stick his head out the doors. He says they ought to rally while there's a lull, and quickly waves Raidou past him. Silly bugger. Half a block on, their boots squeaking cozily, Aoba's walkie talky beeps, and he picks it up with an air of child-like gravitas, like it's just the two of them playing soldiers on holiday. "~Ahoy-hoy~" 

Genma's voice comes through, tinny and crackling. "This is an-pan man back at base. What's your A-P? Over."

Aoba replies, "Oscar Mike. The giraffe has left the reptile exhibit. Over."

Shamefully, it takes Raidou a moment to connect, and by then Aoba's already braced for retaliation. He's taken off jogging with receiver in hand, serpentining desperately while Genma barks at him through the line--what's happening down there? What's your position, Sergeant? Are you under attack?

Raidou quickly scoops and forms a snowball, firing just over Aoba's head and onto a nearby awning. The resultant avalanche of powder misses him by a hair, and Raidou continues, scooping, pressing and shooting--shouting into his own receiver that everything's fine, and please set up some cup noodle for when he gets back--while Aoba ducks and dodges around various doorways and blind corners, looking for a position of cover from which to return fire.

"Typical giraffe," he yells out. "Can't aim for shit!"

Raidou misses again, but he's got him effectively cornered. He gets in a lucky, critical hit when Aoba stumbles over a planter, then pins him there and dumps a full pay-load right on his head. "Now how's my aim? Ah? Ah?" 

It's all powder, so much of it blows away before it can melt. Aoba flings back a few handfuls, which also blow away, and then he's down for the count. His glasses have fogged over again, rendering him quite blind. "Damn it."

Magnanimously, Raidou picks him up and retrieves his hand-set from the planter. "You alright, then?"

Aoba leans over his knees a moment, panting. "I should ask you the same thing--at your age--"

Raidou, after he's done whacking the snow off Aoba's shoulders, scoops up one last handful and, ever so helpful, shoves it down the back of his cloak. "There, now."

"I hate you."

Raidou laughs through the pain: it's at level six now. When it reaches a seven, he will wrestle with whether or not to take an abortive. When it reaches an eight, he will worry if it's not still too late, and when it reaches a nine or a ten, he will no longer be in a position to act. He knows Aoba's aware of this. He can see it flitting about behind his glasses. Poor broken Raidou. The excitement's been too much for him, hasn't it?

Raidou's walkie talky beeps. Genma, of course.

"Everybody here sucks," he says. "When are you coming back already?"

He forgets to say 'over', but Raidou lets it slide. "We're en route," he says. "Are you behaving?"

"Of course."

"Alright, now. Hang in there for me. I'll been back soon." His headache is now a seven and the nausea's set in. He ought to take the shot now, and then find a warm, dark room to lie down in; but both these things, he realizes, are all the way back at the station.

"You alright?" Aoba's asking him.

No, of course he's not. They've walked quite a bit farther than he'd realized, because the streets no longer look familiar, and now everything's started to rock and sway. Halfway across the canal bridge, Raidou comes to a decision. He needs to vomit. He hands Aoba his receiver and his muffler, as calm and orderly as if he's preparing an assault, and leans over the railing. The very next and very last thing he remembers is being grabbed from behind, and the soft cushion of snow rising gently to catch him.

He has no awareness, but he seizes several times, for several minutes until help arrives. Status epilepticus. He later learns that Aoba was there and stayed with him, and Genma was there, and so was Shizune. (As if he'd be happy knowing just how many people were around to watch him sob and puke and pee his clothes, and to watch as the medics peeled them off.)

The hospital has another generator going, so Raidou is bundled up and taken there on a litter. Just for a night or two, they say, just for observation. He has transcended pain at this point. They're pushing the morphine hard; so hard, he hears hoof-beats. 

It's morning, wandering down the painfully lit halls, through the burnt scrub of September, and there are deer browsing in front of the nurses station, rooting through empty Styrofoam coffee cups and sticky pastry wrappings. They don't startle when he approaches, but part like gentle rushes to let him pass through. He reaches in awe to stroke one of their tawny throats, and wakes briefly to the feeling of somebody clasping his hand.

He's in hospital for fifty-six hours. He receives get-well cards this time. He's getting better at pretending the failure doesn't smart, doesn't leave a bitter taste in his mouth. This is nothing but a bump in the road. He'll be alright so long as he keeps moving. He's got to get right back on the horse and ride it straight into the ground again, because it's the only way he knows how.

Kakashi visits him on the worst of Wednesdays and tells him, from bitter, personal experience, what a fool he's being. Rest is not for the weak, and the nurses would rather prefer it if he got back into bed.

He adds gently that, "You have my permission."

And Raidou nearly breaks down crying. He nearly falls off the treadmill, and ends up having to be helped down. He can't remember how long it's been since the injury, how many weeks and months of this shit it's been, and he's not sure it matters anymore. It's like counting the days of a life-sentence. Fruitless. 

"This is my fault," Kakashi says, though this too is fruitless. "He was my student--"

"Sasuke didn't do this," Raidou reminds him, and moreover, he'd prefer not to be seen as the victim here. He is a soldier who, whether he remembers or not, willingly chose to engage an enemy combatant and lost--or as Genma would say, they got ate up. Of all people, he'd think Kakashi would grok that and not stand there rolling his eyes like a git. 

"I've told you," Raidou says. "Keep doing that, one day it's going to stick."

"How very Raidou-like of you," he sighs.

"Is it now?"

Kakashi tips back to lean against the pull-down machine, the very picture of not giving a damn, and asks where Genma-senpai is. 

Raidou picks at a bit of left-over tape from his IV site. "He needed a break, so I sent him home." 

More than anything, he'd love to be there with him, but Lady Tsunade has said his condition still needs monitoring. His balance and his chakra levels are still unstable, and he's simply better off here.

It's this time around that he doesn't want to leave. Home feels all wrong to him, and his next week is spent lying in bed, not wanting to do anything. Genma helps out by also not doing anything. He doesn't push or nag. He doesn't bargain or offer homilies or try to motivate Raidou in any way, and he acts like it's the very best thing he is doing, allowing him to rot, when what he truly needs is a reason to get up and go on. And if Genma can't give him a reason, he must find it himself. Failing to do so is his own fault, and lying here is his punishment. He is a worm.

"You're not a worm," Genma says. "You're depressed. Shizune says--"

"Oh, like I give a piss what Shizune says!" 

He is lashing out. He doesn't mean half of what he says. He just wants to yell about something.

He doesn't want to be told that it's normal, it's common, and therefor it's alright to feel this way. He is living in a black fog. He hasn't showered in days. How can any of this be considered alright?

His nightmares are worse than ever now, and Genma's started having them too. He wakes up screaming about spiders on the bed, and the part of Raidou's brain that's still asleep buys into this. Spiders everywhere, big ones on the nightstand and on the ceiling. He goes into battle mode and flings off the duvet. He grabs a book from the nightstand and starts smashing, and really, it's all hilarious in hindsight. It's all fun and games until he knocks over a lamp and cuts his foot bad enough to need stitches.

It's stupid-dark-thirty in the morning, and they're back in the ER, and Genma says, completely deadpan, "I think we have a problem."

Raidou sighs into his muffler. "Is it a spider problem? 'Cause I'm a viking at spiders."

Genma laughs, and a couple of tears plop out. He hasn't been getting much sleep these days.

Raidou reaches over and squeezes his hand. "It's alright," he says. "Really. It's going to be okay."

"Is it really?"

He wants it to be. He wants it to be that simple. He wants to make plans again, go on dates again, put on a backpack and go hiking again. He wants to stroll into Lady Tsunade's office today and pick up the very fist mission on the docket, even if it is trifling, and come home covered in dirt, weary but flush. He wants something to show for his aching body and dizzy head. He wants to feel something other than gray again.

"I used to drink," Kakashi offers. 

Raidou fiddles with the tab of his coffee can. "Did it help?"

They are sitting beneath the ropes course at the all hours gym while, at home, Genma sleeps the sleep of the drugged. Just this once, Raidou had told him, because he needed it, and Genma was too put-upon to argue. Raidou could not bring himself to go back to bed. Too afraid he'd never want to get out of it again, he'd wrapped his foot and his shin and come here for a bit of motivation. He'd found Kakashi scaling the black-diamond wall with one arm behind his back, and sat down in defeat to watch Hatake showboat the rest of the climb, knowing he had an audience. 

Now, he shrugs and smiles. "In hindsight...not so much."

"Thanks," Raidou says. "Thanks for that. Really."

Kakashi levels a look at him, then, one cyclops to another, and says he knows there's no real advice he can offer. But if things ever get really bad, tell somebody.

"How bad is bad?" Raidou wants to know. "I could lose my rank, you know. I could lose my job."

But look at you now, Kakashi's eye seems to say. What are you doing now?

Raidou averts his gaze.

"Let me buy you lunch," Kakashi says. "I'll actually cover it this time."

He isn't hungry, but he could eat. He could at least do that much.

\--It's 06:00 h, 1st March. It has been raining four days straight and there is mud everywhere. Ofc. Tatami has returned from his deployment a little bit thinner, a little bit darker, and a whole lot shaggier. After (forcibly) convincing him that a shave and haircut would not diminish his prowess, he reports that all is well outside, though Suna can't do beer for shit. 

I am due to end my leave tomorrow at this same time, and though he is owed a substantial bit of downtime, Ofc. Tatami along with Ofc. Shiranui will accompany myself to work. Though it's humbling to admit, I will need every ounce of their help. Regards, 1st. Lt., Namiashi Raidou--

He's not sure what to expect back at work. Lady Tsunade tries to allay whatever concerns he might have, about having to relearn certain skills, about having to negotiate a new set of rules, but he brushes them off. Best to jump right in, he decides, rather than let his anxieties chew holes in him all morning.

Iwashi says he'll do fine. 

Raidou's run the mission desk before, and he's good at dealing with troublesome people. He doesn't brook much nonsense like some of the other seniors, Iwashi says, which he finds refreshing. Wait until Naruto comes back, Iwashi says. Things are bound to be fun then!

"I could do with a bit of fun," Raidou says.

"Then take these." Iwashi pulls a ledger book from the top of his stack. "They always give me the freak-jobs no-one else will take."

"They why on earth would I want them?"

Iwashi wiggles it tantalizingly. "Because they're interesting. Look, I'll buy you a beer later--"

Anko slams a binder down on the table between them. It's at least twice as thick as the rest. "Tatami, quit trying to fob off your D-ranks on everybody else."

"Senpai, with all due respect--"

She leans down in his face, real close-up like, and hisses. "Respect me by listening. Are we clear?"

"Crystal, senpai."

Anko turns to Raidou. "If any other yobbos give you trouble, let me know."

That won't be necessary, Raidou says. Iwashi's no trouble, and he's not trying to make enemies here. Once all the assignments are given, he'll take the security kiosk for a few hours with Genma, who will tease him about how stern and proper he looks while, for all anyone knows, they're doing unspeakable things beneath the desk. 

And this is why, Raidou thinks, they don't often work together. He says, "You're too distracting"--fussily rearranging his papers and clipboard into carefully squared piles--"this is serious fucking business, you know."

He feigns shock. "Mouth, Raidou."

"Yes, what about it?"

"Never mind," Genma says. "Anyway, you know I've got a mission tomorrow." 

"What? Since when?"

"Didn't I tell you this morning?"

"I--don't remember."

Genma's smile wilts. "Yeah, well, it's just a B-rank. Like you'd say, 'piece of shit'."

"That's piece of piss," Raidou says. "But I still want you to be careful."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Don't take chances."

"Alright, Daddy."

"And don't call me that," Raidou says. "It's weird."

"Yeah, yeah," Genma says, and for the rest of the day, he is such a perfect git that little does Raidou know, he's got quite the evening planned.

First, a hot bath, followed by a massage; next, a relaxing tea with little snacks, served in the spotlessly clean sitting room; then dinner and a movie, watched in their sweat clothes like a couple of old marrieds. Raidou falls asleep half-way through the second act, and wakes momentarily to find Genma nestled into his shoulder, eyes fixed glassy upon the screen.

"Just promise me you won't take chances," Raidou murmurs.

"I won't," he says, distracted. "You know I won't. But you need to promise me while I'm gone, you'll take care of yourself. Don't make me have to worry about you, okay?" 

He always does, but Raidou is an adult. If nothing else, Lady Tsunade will make sure he's too occupied to get in any trouble. The morning after seeing Genma off, he reports to the mission desk, then it's patrols for three hours, followed by a bento that will be interrupted no fewer than six times by either a Chuunin or Genin with some form that needs signed, or an issue that absolutely cannot wait until Raidou has finished chewing. After lunch, to Raidou's relief, he's down in the mines with Aoba; shredding classified memos and bitching heartily about the junior officers--gofers--the clients--s.p.o.s--and the council elders who are simply sadistic fucks for whom he has no less than the utmost fear and respect, swear to almighty god, amen.

"Now be nice," Aoba chides. "If it weren't for the s.p.o.s and sadists, we'd be out a job."

"They've gotten to you," Raidou mutters over a sheaf of expense reports; wondering how on earth a trio of genin managed to exceed their budget in a single day carrying documents. "If I can't use a bit of colorful rhetoric down here, then where else can I?"

"Hey, up your rhetoric!"

"Haw." Raidou dithers over flagging the sheet. He knows these genin, and he knows little Konohamaru would sooner fall on a kunai than try and pull something sheisty. Then again, it's Ebisu's team. He never really got on with Ebisu. "I could gut him with a clear conscience," he mutters. "Years on, they'll be thanking me for it."

"There a problem?" Aoba asks. "You know, there's a lot I'll let slide from you--"

"Figuratively," Raidou says. "I meant figuratively. Come have a look at this shit show, would you? What do you supposed he's getting up to out there? Soaplands, is it? Mixed baths? Or was the drop-off inside a titty bar?"

Aoba's specs glint wickedly. "Copy it back to him with a note, ask for itemized receipts."

"Wilco! Have one of the gofers run it over. If he raises a fuss, say he's welcome to take it up with our chief financial orifice. Lovingly."

Ibiki gives them each a dubious once-over from the doorway, having paused mid-step with a pink folder in one hand and a paper coffee-cup in the other: business as usual down at the steno and torture pool. 

Aoba spares him a hi-sign as he goes past. "Thursdays, eh?"

The next day Raidou is greeted with a glass jar and a bit of white notepaper. "'For our chief financial orifice'?"

"It's a swear jar," Aoba says.

"It's extortion!"

Aoba says take it up with Lady Tsunade, if he dares. Otherwise, it's a hundred per offense.

"And what counts as an offense? What can't I say?"

"Relax," Aoba says. "I'll let you know."

Bastard.

"Jar."

"I never said anything!"

"You thought it," Aoba says.

"You know I hate you."

By Saturday, there's enough money in the jar to treat everyone in the tokujo pool: puddings and pastries courtesy of Raidou's--never dear unimpeachable Aoba's--filthy mouth. Lady Tsunade is less than thrilled, however, when she finds out how little a deterrent her scheme has proven. They've got a real problem on their hands, she says, and the Hokage will not be bribed with choux-cremes. 

"Ma'am, if you'll pardon my insubordination, you paid for that one yourself." A whole box worth, actually. 

Her smile is murderous. "Raidou," she says. "You have made incredible progress so far. To be frank, I don't know that another man would have survived your circumstances, let alone overcome them to the extent of leveraging an accounts sheet against his own boss--"

"Ma'am."

"I'll make you a deal: from now on, let's both do our best to reign in the profanities, shall we? If you can manage 'til the end of next week, I'll cover the snack pool myself."

"Yes, ma'am."

She brushes a bit of stray powdered sugar from her sleeve. "Hm, good then." And out she walks, heels clacking briskly down the hall.

Raidou sags in his chair. Behind him, he hears Aoba let out his breath, and turns to make sure he hasn't turned blue. "What's your problem?"

He shakes his head mutely. 

"Aoba, would you--"

"Look, you know I'd never snitch on a fellow prisoner! Under pain of torture, I swear it!"

"--bring me that ledger."

He's near frothing as he hands it over, eyebrows like check-marks punctuating his fury. "She has wiles."

"They're called breasts," Raidou says. "You know she knows you're looking, right?"

"I'm a man goddammit! It's not like I want to...."

"Hundred," Raidou says. "In the jar."

With a snort, Aoba fishes into his flak for some coins. "You're enjoying this."

"Penance for blowing my concentration." Raidou flicks his pen against the blotter: tap, thunk, tap, thunk. "I have no idea what I was supposed to do just now." 

It was there a moment ago and now it's gone, blank. He thumbs through the in-box, then the out-box, then peeks inside a drawer. Nothing. "Shhhish-kebabs," he hisses, pushing away from the desk. "Now I've gone and done it. That's it. There's my day!"

"You just asked for that ledger."

"I did, but why?"

Aoba frowns contemplatively. 

He is playing silly buggers again, probably stalling for a break, and Raidou hasn't got the patience to argue. "That wasn't a riddle."

"Wasn't it?" Aoba puts up his hands. "Okay, I know, not helping. Why don't we take fifteen?"

He means a short walk, but one look at the weather--dark and pregnant--and it turns into a jog. A memory jog, Aoba jokes; there might be a quiz later. During their academy days, during PT, they'd use Sado Okesa as a cadence, prepubescent voices ringing shrilly through the yard, peeling the paint from nearby buildings and notifying every dog within ten kilometers that this was their territory and don't come near. Raidou likes to think they've improved since then; if nothing else, in terms of volume.

Raidou chants sado-e, sado-e, and Aoba responds arya-sa, arya-arya-arya-sa. Around the municipal campus and past the tea shop: Sado to-o, arya-sa! Beneath the jounin wait-station, arya-arya-arya-sa! Kakashi hangs his glowing pale head out the transom above the men's toilet, three floors up, and asks what happened to the rest of their unit.

Aoba shouts up at him without breaking stride. "Don't throw us off!" 

"Who's a bad dog, arya-sa!"

It's spitting down by the time they complete their circuit and blow back inside via the ground floor vestibule. Kakashi is there to greet them, hands hung casually in pockets, with an offended snuff of air. Raidou knows by his expression that he and Aoba must reek of sweat, and makes sure to give him a jocular shoulder rub before going to switch out his sandals.

"Nice day for it," Kakashi winces. 

He must be on standby. He keeps slipping nervous little glances towards the glass doors; no doubt waiting for somebody who's taking their sweet ironical time.

Aoba says, "Ain't it just?"

A flicker of lightning, and Raidou braces himself for the crack, for the sky to split wide open and jolt him from his skin. Instead, a locker opens one row up and he damn near puts his elbow through the one behind. Kakashi watches him while thunder rumbles apologetically outside: between them, two sound eyes and the unbearable lightness of understanding.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, Kakashi turns up at the hospital on a stretcher, a team of medics swarming him like worker bees; moving his limbs, forcing air into him through a bag, humming angry orders to open a room while everyone in triage sits there complacent as cattle. He is bleeding from his left eye and looks quite dead, and Raidou notes all this with a sense of sick detachment. Nice day for it, eh? 

By the time Raidou's name is called, Kakashi is gone, whisked off down the hall, and he is shaking. His ears are ringing. Someone's shining a light in his eye. And he's talking down a long, echoing tunnel, saying he's okay. He's alright. Would somebody fetch him a drink?

It's too much to hope that Lady Tsunade doesn't find out. She is waiting after his check-up, and he sees his fate resting between her hands, squarely atop a manila folder. She reassures him it's not all that dire. She's simply reviewing his progress, and today's episode aside, he seems to be coming along. In another six months, she says she feels confident enough to reactivate him. If, she clarifies, that is _if_ he is able to pass his certification again.

Of course, and he'll do his absolute best. But what of Kakashi, he asks, what's happened? Who's looking after him?

"Shizune and Sakura are, but it's not for you to worry."

He'd damn well beg to differ.

"He's a friend, I know. But you're in no state to deal with the stress. Go home, take the day. We'll cable you if something happens." 

There is little more to say after that, so he collects his papers and his prescriptions, and he leaves, nearly plowing into one of the younger medics as he rounds the corner. They both let out the same 'terribly sorry', although she--a tiny, pink-haired girl--would have come out the worst for it, and Raidou takes a deliberate step back.

She takes careful stock of his scars, then another 'terribly sorry'. She has no idea who he is. She has no reason to know. She is a genin, and Raidou--if he thinks about it--is just one of the many nameless, nondescript, uniformed adults that move in and out of the village and sometimes never return. No wonder she looks like she's seen a ghost. 

"You're one of Kakashi's," he says. "Sakura, is it?"

She gives a tentative nod. "Are you--"

"A comrade," he says simply. 

"Oh, well, he's stable now," she says. "No thanks to being a huge idiot. He's not ready for visitors yet, but tomorrow--if you'd like--"

Bad idea coming back to this place, he thinks; but for Kakashi it must be infinitely worse. He is awake when both Raidou and Genma visit the following morning, and he seems genuinely surprised at the company; surprised anyone knows he's there. 

"Should've been a routine mission," Genma says. "Just what were you playing at?" 

"I was cleaning it and it went off."

Genma does not look amused. "You really think that'll fly? You know, you're not some cute little kid anymore--"

"No," Kakashi says. "Therefore, you can spare me the lecture. I feel bad enough as it is."

Genma sighs. "How long this time?" 

Five days, nothing catastrophic. At least he'll get some reading done.

He looks at Raidou, then, as if to ensure he's satisfied, as if to ensure he's not angry, and Raidou can only laugh. Loud enough to make Genma jump.

"Gesundheit," Kakashi says.

Raidou excuses himself. Anyway, he's alright now. It's possible he misremembers, and yesterday wasn't so bad as all that. His hands are shaking only because he'd skipped breakfast that day. Yes, he knows better than that with his medication. Yes, he'd still remembered to take it. No, he doesn't want to talk.

For what purpose? To what end should he rehash and relive it all?

The nightmares will take care of that, and they will be vicious. He will come to at the crest of a grassy knoll, pink seed heads waving in the wind, and spread out below him, bodies and rubble. Rising columns of black smoke. Sticky dirt mixed with blood. Kakashi lies beneath a half crumbled wall; his body is bristling with spears, but he's still warm. Raidou lifts him, and he feels light as a pillow.

It's too late. It was already too late. He's sorry, he's sorry, please, god forgive 

"--me, I'm sorry--Kakashi--"

Genma's shushing wakes him. It's okay, it's just a dream.

He's sorry. He's sorry. Go on back to sleep. 

"We actually do have counselors," Aoba reminds him.

He's returned to work the next day, thinking he needs the distraction more than anything else, but he moves on autopilot and blanks out in the middle of conversations. His stomach pains him and his eyes feel like punched out windows, full of jagged bits. Genma had badgered him that morning, saying he's not expected in anyway and he's got a right to take off. But he's alright, he insists bloodlessly.

"Bull-fucking-shit," says Aoba. "And here's two hundred ryo."

Raidou about slaps it from his hand. He is not in the mood today.

"Then why are you here?"

Better here under supervision, he thinks, than home alone with his thoughts. Better than burdening Genma when he's got enough himself to worry about. But is he really being fair to Aoba? He does let an awful lot slide, and he is one of Raidou's oldest, most constant friends. 

If nothing else, he can be trusted not to sugar-coat things.

"You're a mess," he says. "I know you're doing better and everything, but right now, you don't belong at work." 

"Right," says Raidou. "And what do you propose I do instead? Take another six month holiday?"

"You've got savings," Aoba says. "I know you."

Then he should know Raidou cannot abide doing nothing for any amount of time. He cannot simply lie at home and rot; not anymore. He cannot deal with the boredom. He cannot deal with being useless.

"At least talk to somebody," Aoba says. "I'll sit here and listen as long as you need, but I'm not a professional."

Rich, coming from a man who, no matter how shit he is at social interaction, could literally read his mind. He could take Raidou apart from the inside out, unravel his psyche like a sweater, and put him back together again before he knew anyone was there. He may not be the type of professional Raidou needs, but he has insights, and above all, he's safe. The office is safe. They're in the absolute bunghole of the intel depot; no-one would bother listening in on them here. 

"Aoba," he says, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure, anything," he says.

"How do you know--can you tell when someone's going crazy?"

Aoba turns his chair around and sinks into it, sighing. "I'm not a professional, I told you--"

"But you can look inside, can't you?"

He says, "I could. But I don't think you're crazy."

Not the relief it should come as, but it does take Raidou's shaking down a notch.

"Look," Aoba says. "It's clear you're hurting. I'm going to do whatever I can, okay?"

They don't wait for clearance, but go right to the medical building where Sato-san is waiting, installed compactly behind a desk on the third floor, in a tiny office across from the first-aide and nurse's station. He comes out to take Raidou's forms before the charge nurse can say anything, and waves him in, like he's a customer at a cafe.

"You'll have to pardon the mess," he says, gesturing towards a low, leather bound couch that takes up much of the available space. "Cleaning service doesn't usually come until Sunday."

Raidou hovers. "Do I--am I supposed to lie down?"

Sato-san's already settled himself behind the desk. "If you like." 

"I'll sit, thanks."

"Very well, then." He gives a brief flick through Raidou's forms, then looks up, fixing him squarely in his seat. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

How to answer? Is Sato-san disappointed seeing him back here so soon? Does this mean all his progress was for naught? What happens now?

Sato-san scoots his chair forward. "Well, that wasn't a trick question. Please be reassured, this is the easy part, Namiashi-san--if that's alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

"How is your friend, by the way--Shiranui-san? Keeping up with his exercises?"

And that's how his first few sessions go, lemon squeezey as Genma would say. Sato-san gets the ball rolling with a few questions, and Raidou spends the next fifty-nine minutes carefully divulging what information he's deemed safe. His work is fairly common knowledge around Konoha; so that is not off limits. He is, as Sato-san says, a house cat. To date, he's laid claim to near fifty kills; this is fact. They all had faces, they all had names, and they all had bounties. 

How does he feel about that? Well, how should he feel? 

It is not his place to rationalize or pass judgment, he says, but these are all very bad people they're talking about here; terrorists, rapists, and mass murderers. Again, facts. That's all he'll say about it. All he is even permitted to say. "Sato-san, if you'll forgive me--" 

He waves a hand. Again, let us dispense with the formality. "Just tell me what's on your mind, Namiashi-san. There are no judgments here." 

"You've said you served. So you know how it is." Raidou steeples his fingers, as if driving the point home with a wedge. "Exactly. How it is."

And how does he feel about that?

This is what he does now. After a handful of visits, he's begun questioning, calling Raidou out on things he says without thinking, calling to attention the patterns he himself cannot see. It is frustrating, but Raidou needs to be challenged. And how is it with Genma away so often?

He asks often about Genma, cussedly taking for granted what Raidou hasn't yet told him; pushing more for however many times he tries to brush it off, and Raidou is running out of bluffs. It's lonely, he admits. He's gotten used to having him around. This past winter was hard on him, he says; without Genma there, he'd have cracked up for sure. He has been the one bright spot in all this mess, a shining beacon guiding him ever away from the looming pit of despair. He is not without his many flaws, but as Genma's dad is fond of saying: if every pork-chop were perfect, we wouldn't have hot-dogs.

Raidou hates pork. He always has.

He arrives at work one Friday, and the mood in the hallways, in the office and in the kitchen is strange. He can't quite put his finger on why, but everything seems charged, seems nervy, seems uncomfortable. He finds Aoba waiting by his desk with an uncharacteristically grave expression, and asks what's up. Because everyone's been avoiding him. Is it that he smells? Is there a rumor going around? If so, he'd like to know so he can quash it right quick.

Aoba sets something down on his desk. It's a copy of a copy of Raidou's wanted poster. "This just came in from Iwa," he says. "Congratulations, man, you've made the big time."

"Hold on," Raidou says. "Let me get my reading glasses. I want to be sure and count all the zeros."

He's not sure what to expect, but Aoba's reaction is well overboard. "You think this is a fucking joke?"

Not hardly. But let's look at it this way, people have been trying to kill him his whole life, what difference does adding an incentive make? Besides turning his normally uptight work-mate into more of a raving lunatic than usual, that is.

"Don't you get it?" Aoba presses. "Don't you care?"

"I suppose."

"This isn't funny, Raidou. Look at me!"

He doesn't want to. Because he knows Aoba's crying, and it's Friday, and he doesn't want to accept culpability.

"You're my best friend," Aoba says. "Don't you want to live?"

Hell of a question to ask a person, isn't it? Of course he wants to live. He is alive, after all. If he wanted to be dead, he'd be dead. He could be dead regardless, but he's not. He's alive. He writes the memos, he makes the coffee, he cares whether Aoba chooses to believe him or not. He is just lousy at showing it.

What about Genma, Sato-san asks?

Raidou would prefer to keep him out of this. As much as he might protest--he's a grown-up, a Shinobi, a soldier just as much as Raidou or anybody else, and he doesn't need protecting--this is different. As much as he might avoid mentioning their dust-up with Orochimaru's gang, for fear Raidou might take a bad turn, Raidou can read it in his face. As soon as he walks through the door, he can taste a fight brewing, so he flings down his flak jacket, walks out of his boots, slams his keys down on the valet by the genkan and says, "Let's have it, then."

Genma scowls up at him from his papers, and in that perfectly Genma-like way of his, says, "Eh? Something the matter?"

Raidou wavers at the threshold. Here, he'd built this whole thing up in his mind--down to the last facial tic, down to the last snort--and now he's left no recourse but to spill it all. He's got nowhere left to dig but deep, as deep as he needs to bury himself. He shows his palms, and that is his second mistake. He says, "Now, I want you not to freak out--" and that is his last.

What the hell, Raidou! He goes and says a thing like that, of course Genma's going to freak out. What now? 

He's half-way up from the floor, like a goalie going to block, and Raidou can't help it. He starts laughing. He tries to juke around him, and Genma shoots out a hand, his arms like vines coming up to entangle and trap his feet. Raidou drags him across the living room towards the kitchen, and all the while he's yowling like an angry hyena.

"Tell me, damn it, or I swear to god I'm leaving you...."

Raidou says, "You are not, and I just want a beer."

"You can't have a beer!"

He's getting a beer. He's opening the fridge. He's selecting a tallboy whilst Genma threatens to kancho him into submission, and he's carefully wiping the top off with a clean dishrag. He's delaying the inevitable.

"You don't think I know about the bounty," Genma says cannily.

Raidou pops the top.

"What. Did you think I was gonna be mad? Eh?" Genma follows him, now fully upright, back to the living room table. "How long did you think you'd keep it from me?"

Sighing, Raidou reaches for the TV remote. Just the thing, he realizes, to send Genma from angry to furious. He freezes, and Genma leans over him.

"I wanna see it," he murmurs, his breath hot in Raidou's ear.

Raidou says, "Sit down." He hands Genma the tallboy and goes to retrieve the rolled up poster from his vest pocket. 

Genma's sitting when he returns, sipping from the tallboy and snacking on rice-crackers; pacified, but guarding the remote with his elbow. No chance of evading this one. He beckons with his eyes: let's have it.

Raidou carefully flattens it out on the table-top. He says, "I think they really captured my good side."

Genma sucks his teeth and says, "They made you look like a serial killer." He passes the tallboy to Raidou and reaches to keep a corner from furling. "How many zeros is that? That's like a million, isn't it?"

It is a million. Raidou sets the tallboy down on the table and kneels up. He pulls Genma easily into his arms and kisses his temple and strokes his hair. "It's going to be alright," he says. "I want you not to worry."

"Asshole," Genma sniffs. "Of course I'm gonna worry." 

But he's not about to hold Raidou back from doing what he wants, what he must. He's not going to act like he can protect him. It's been six months since the injury, and Raidou wants to start training for his recertification. It's simply time. Bounty or no bounty. They make love that night, with long, slow strokes; a bit of gentle exercise, Genma says, to help get Raidou started. Then he sets his alarm for zero-dark-thirty, and wakes five minutes before it goes off. This is it. Time to take the longest leap: from the ledge of their futon into his running shoes. He takes his time preparing. He drinks a cup of strong tea. He wraps his left leg and pulls on a billed cap to keep his head warm. He lets Genma sleep in.

The run is a short one, gentle pace, steady cadence. In his youth--and he laughs to use such a phrase--he'd have been tempted to go all out. Go to the absolute max and then push it. If you hit a wall, push harder until you break through. He'd have laughed at five-kilometers. He could go possibly go farther today, faster today, but he is wiser now. He holds back. At home, Genma greets him with a loud woof and a cup of coffee--sweet white--and eggs over rice.

"Fat and carbs for my athlete," he says.

Raidou kisses him soundly on the temple. 

"How's your head?"

It hurts, of course, but Raidou's used to that by now. He takes a cold washcloth to his face, a couple of painkillers, and sits down for what feels like the first breakfast of his new life. Genma joins him in the shower afterwards, and they fuck beneath the spray, and it's electric. It's like he is high. It worries him a bit.

It's the adrenaline, Genma says. He gets like that after a workout sometimes. 

"I get wood just scooping protein powder," he says. "I wanna hump everything."

Raidou nuzzles into his slippery shoulder and laughs. "Would you, could you with a goat? Would you, could you in a boat...."

"Weird," Genma says. "You're weird."

He doesn't disagree. At work, Aoba still doesn't get how he can be so cavalier. He says if it was anybody else's picture on the wall, say Genma or Kakashi or Shizune, he'd be rabid. 

Raidou says, "You left out a few names." 

Aoba stretches back in his chair. He'd already been there several hours when Raidou so blithely strolled in, and it's getting close to 'fuck-this-o'clock'. 

He says, "I thought I was doing you a favor." He says, "You know these lists are classified."

Raidou knows that, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't at least a little afraid. 

But not of dying.

He is given his orders on a Monday, one year to the day he'd left the hospital. It's not a pleasant day, as it is still very cold, and raining, and muddy. The mission is a long one, too, but he completes it well within the window and returns home without stopping once. He needs to check up on Genma, to make sure he's still there and not disappeared; even if Genma laughs off his concerns, even if Lady Tsunade gets chuffed at them both for delaying his mission report.

Raidou is firm in that he will not place some trifling bit of B-rank dross over the life of his precious comrade. With all due respect. The Lady is entitled to dock him or impose penalties if she sees fit. To which she laughs, with eyes like bronze daggers, and says he hasn't changed in the least. 

Sato-san understands they are bound by secrecy, and so he doesn't ask about the mission. He says, let's talk about how we've been sleeping. How has Raidou been managing day-to-day? How have they both?

Raidou says, "We've been managing."

Genma's there with him for a change and he agrees that, yes, they've been managing.

Right, so, what is a typical day like for Namiashi-san and Shiranui-san? Let's start with bedtime--now, Sato-san is married, so he understands. No judgments here. 

Genma fiddles with his hands. Well, there is one big futon, and they share it together. 

Are the nightmares disruptive? Please, don't be afraid to answer.

"Ahm," Genma looks down and fiddles some more.

"They are," Raidou says. "It's just about every night, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but you're pretty consistent that way," Genma says. "I kinda worry when you don't wake up screaming."

That's quite common, Sato-san assures him, quite normal. How is his sleep otherwise? About how many hours would he say he gets?

"Five," says Raidou. "Pretty standard. We do gym in the morning, I guess...around five? Sometimes we go for a run."

Genma nods along. "Rai-chan needs lots of exercise or he tends to get bored and chew on things."

Now, now, Sato-san says. Pardon him for laughing.

"It's alright," says Raidou. "I am sort of like a big dog, aren't I?"

Alright, now, other than the nightmares--and Sato-san keeps coming back to those--what other difficulties has Raidou noticed? What have they each noticed? Take us through breakfast, how is Raidou in the kitchen?

Proficient enough. He can be left to cook without supervision, and hasn't burnt down the flat yet. Although he has caught himself putting the milk in the pantry several times, and once found a dishtowel in the fridge, he's alright.

No trouble with motor skills, then?

No. They tested all that. If anything, his skills have improved. After years of catching and throwing objects with only half a visual field, he can now nail a target blind-folded, at a distance of up to ten yards. He can sense when someone's trying to sneak up on him. To the great benefit of all those around him, he no longer startles as easily.

But he forgets things often?

"Yeah," Genma says. "Between the two of us, it's amazing they haven't shut the gas off already."

"Eh? I never forg--"

"You did," Genma says. "I paid it last month. I told you about it."

"You never did."

"Told you several times."

To which Raidou shrugs.

"Right," Genma says. "So, we try to keep lists of everything we need. You know, shi--ah, sorry--" 

Sato-san waves him off. "This isn't the classroom," he says. "You can say shit here."

Raidou says it often enough. "Shit like groceries, and what else," he prompts.

Genma shakes his head. "I forget. Anyway, we make lists. That's what we do."

"Good, good," says Sato-san.

"We make the lists," Genma continues. "Then we forget to look at them."

"Not good," Sato-san says. "Do we go into battle unprepared?"

Raidou looks up at the ceiling. "No, sir, we do not."

Shopping is a battle. It is like close-quarters combat where you aren't allowed to kill people, and Raidou finds this very disconcerting. Doesn't matter if it's indoors or out, if it's crowded or quiet, he is in survival mode. The idea is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Know what you need beforehand, grab it, pay for it, and go. Don't slow down, don't get distracted, and never, ever go into an area with only one exit. Doing that could get you killed.

He leaves the house holding his list, and invariably shoves it back inside his flak vest so his hands will be free. Just common sense, that. 

"We don't wear our civvies a whole lot outside the house," Genma says. "When you're in uniform, at least people know to get out of your way."

And Raidou can clear a path like nobody's business, but it's no good if five out of seven trips he still forgets to buy light bulbs for the lavatory. It's no good if he remembers as soon as he gets home and sees the camping lantern still atop the toilet tank; and it's no good yelling at himself, when he knows it's only going to happen again.

"Damn it, Raidou!"

Genma calls from the other room. "What now? Did the lantern burn out?"

"There shouldn't still be a lantern!"

"I know. You were supposed to buy light bulbs a week ago."

Raidou slaps at the front of his flak vest until he locates the list. "Swear to god," he's muttering. "How am I even still alive? How the hell do you get through nine hundred arseing missions and not remember--

"--Toilet paper. Fuck me! I've got to go back--"

"Toilet paper's under the sink," Genma calls out. "I stole some from work."

He shouldn't have to, and Raidou should not be thanking him for it, but if this is what he's reduced them to, so be it. Raidou's not going back out again. It's simply non-negotiable. After remembering to take a piss and to wash his hands, he's decided he's not good for much else. Even dinner seems too big an undertaking, and like that, the worm is back. Writhing and pathetic. He bear crawls over the threshold of the sitting room, so as not to block Genma's view of the screen, and it's just like that scene from 'Old Yeller', thirty minutes before they have to put a bullet in his head. He is done for. Rabid. 

"Please, do the kind thing, won't you?"

Genma looks down at Raidou, prostrate, over the top of his popcorn bowl. "Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic?"

No, he knows he is. This is how he blows off steam. If Genma doesn't like it, he's welcome to sleep elsewhere tonight.

"I know you're just saying that," Genma says. "I know you're gonna regret it later."

He's wrong about that. Raidou regrets it the second it's left his lips, though it was meant to be a joke. It just comes out all wrong. He's sorry. He's not fit to be around at the moment. He says he nearly clocked an old lady at the market today. She was taking far too long in front of the canned foods, and he just got so angry, so irrationally fucking mad, he felt like he might catch on fire. He felt like unleashing a Gojira scream right there in the aisle and hurling her into the sea.

"Did you?"

Raidou flops over onto his back, his outstretched arms spanning the floor. "What do you think?

"I think sometimes you just need to scream, you know?" Genma reaches over and picks up a floor cushion. "Try screaming into this."

Raidou stares blearily up at him, at the man he has chosen to spend his life with, and says, "Just hold it over my face 'til I stop struggling."

"Alright then," Genma says. "Close your eyes."

He doesn't really think he'll do it, he says. He hasn't got it in him. "If I do die, though, promise me you'll take the bounty--" 

Whump. The cushion bounds off of his stomach. Because, as big an asshole as Raidou's being, Genma still cares enough not to aim for the head. 

"I knew you couldn't do it," Raidou says to his stiffly retreating ankles, and only later, when he is done feeling sorry for himself, does he seek him out to apologize. "Were you crying?"

A soft snuffle in the dark.

Raidou takes a knee beside him. "I'm sorry. Let's not go to bed angry?"

"Mwah?" He turns over and blinks up at Raidou. He hadn't been crying. He'd been asleep.

"Unfair," says Raidou. "You don't get to do that!" 

"Mm," he mutters. "Why the hell not?"

"I thought we were fighting," Raidou says. "You left me thinking you were mad at me."

"I was. Did you come in here to piss me off all over again?"

Raidou looms over him. "I came to apologize," he says. "It's your choice whether to accept it or not."

"Man, fuck you."

"Darling, no. Fuck you."

Genma laughs ominously, from deep down in his belly, and reaches back to grab a pillow. "You asshole, c'mere--"

"Ah-ah!" Raidou tries to grab it away from him, but he's at an awkward angle. He's slowed by exhaustion and his poor night vision, and if he's honest with himself, he wants to lose. 

Genma's got his legs under him, and by the count of three, he's got Raidou in a scissor-hold. He's breathing a bit heavy now, his hair's all mussed, and his cheeks are flushed with blood. His pulse leaps like a drum-beat against the inside of Raidou's wrist, and he's got this absolute shit-eating expression on his face; like he knows he's won.

"You're hard," Genma says. "You're getting hard from this!"

Caught. Raidou slowly exhales. "You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"What, just 'cause you got a boner? Like, the argument's over when you want sex?" 

No, and because he's not a complete bastard, Raidou pulls back. He says, "I'm sorry, I know what I said was over the line."

"Yeah?"

"I didn't mean it."

"So you don't want me to take the money."

"N--alright, now," Raidou holds up a hand. "Let's be fair about this."

Genma breathes out a sigh. "I wasn't mad about that," he says. "It's just--today. You know?"

He understands. He understands things like 'today' and 'having a moment' and 'yeah, yeah' in ways so fundamental that he couldn't possibly translate them to an outsider like Sato-san. 

"I'm sorry," Raidou says. "I was being an idiot." He'd got so wrapped up in himself, he never even stopped to think how Genma was feeling. Maybe he'd had a long day too, maybe he's tired too, maybe he had something good to talk about and Raidou spoiled that by being Raidou. 

He uncurls his legs and pats Raidou reassuringly on the hip. "It's okay. Maybe I overreacted...a lot."

"Did something happen today?"

Genma frowns delicately.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

Genma shakes his head. "There's nothing to talk about." And here he looks like he really might cry. "It was shit, that's all. Just shit."

Raidou says it's alright. He says to take a moment, but Genma launches in with barely a pause, and lo the floodgates have opened. Things were so overbooked today, they barely had enough teams to cover, and clients were just pissing directly on the Jounin over it, which of course trickled down to the Tokujou, who took it out on the Chuunin, who in turn complained again to the Tokujou, and it was just an endless stream of piss from all angles. Like dealing with children. Genma swears, he apologized so many times, to so many different people, that's how he'd begun answering the phone. 'I'm sorry, you've reached headquarters. How may I field your inquiry?'

Here, he finally pauses to take a breath. "You know in nature documentaries, how they bait sharks with human shaped cut-outs? That was me today. Just one more idiot question, and I would've bit that person in half."

"'To shreds, you say?'"

"You can joke, but I meant it." He says he'd been clenching his jaw so hard, for so long without realizing it, the next time he opened his mouth, it came with a loud crack. Scared the hell out of Kotetsu and Izumo. Almost landed him in the infirmary. 

"I see. So this whole time, that toothpick was the one thing keeping you from snapping."

"It's not funny." Now he's stroking Raidou's arms, pulling him closer.

"I know. How is it now?"

"Sore," Genma says, pouting. "So, I'm sorry, I can't give you head tonight."

Raidou says, "I never expected you to.

"I know, but I wanted to. Now I'm bummed because I can't."

"And you're not still mad at me?" Raidou brings his hands up to block, and falls back laughing as Genma climbs on top of him with the duvet. "Eh? You're not still mad, are you?"

He bears down on all fours, trapping Raidou with him in a cocoon of blankets. "You want me to be?" He's not laughing, but leering down at Raidou like god's greatest gift waiting to be unwrapped. "You want me to be mad at you? I'll be mad. I'll snap you in half."

"Oh, I'm scared."

"Like a steel trap," he annunciates, squeezing Raidou's cock through the fly of his shorts.

"I thought you said--"

Genma rears up and begins stripping off his nightclothes. "Not with my mouth." 

"Assertive tonight," Raidou hisses. "I like!"

Genma sets back and grinds on him. "You do?"

"I do."

"Tss," Genma slaps Raidou across the chest with his shirt. "Then you gotta tell me. I'm awesome at many things, I know, but I'm not a mind reader."

"Cocky," Raidou says. "I like that too."

Though the shades are drawn, the bedroom kept black because of his headaches, Raidou sees light seeping around the edges. He sees the whole evening ahead of them, and he is happy. Let all the bulbs burn out, he thinks. Let this be a world of tented bedclothes and faces pressed close together, whispering secrets to one another's lips. Who needs sight when one can navigate by touch? Who needs smell when there is the taste of salt and spit?

Raidou leaves off badgering until afterwards: once Genma's caught his breath, when he is at his most unguarded and pliable, and asks him if he'll see a doctor.

"'bout what, my asshole?"

"Your jaw."

Genma traces a line of slick scar-tissue across Raidou's chest, and mutters sleepily, "It'll heal on its own." He says a shark will replace several thousand sets of teeth over its lifetime. One for every stupid question it's asked.

"Alright, sorry I brought it up." Then, after a pause. "You're not literally a shark, you know. Otherwise, you'd have two dicks."

"They're called claspers. And my tutu wahine from Kiri, so I'm like a quarter shark." 

"See a marine biologist, then."

"m'kay"

And later, when Raidou rockets upright in bed--shouting and desperately fighting empty air--Genma rubs his back until he's calm again. 

It's not been their best day, but it's better than bad.


	5. Chapter 5

A year and a half, two years on, they have stopped comparing their better days to their worst, and Raidou is taking A and S-ranked missions again. He's running tactical raids in and out of Ame; in and out of the badlands bordering Iwa; down into blasted bunkers that are deserted more often than not, but one out of ten times contain surprise occupants who are none too happy to see him. Lady Tsunade would have him avoiding combat when at all possible; while Sir Homura and Lord Danzo, the old bastards, are all too happy, all too eager, to see blood. They want to see their dividends maximized. They want heads, or else don't come home.

Raidou brings them back gift-wrapped. He is nothing if not a professional. He does not rationalize, he does not complain, but increasingly he has begun to dislike it. He much prefers body-guarding, or the odd bit of intelligence work with Aoba. Because Raidou is so good at playing dumb, what they call 'obfuscating stupidity', they never see him coming. But they will never not remind him that brutality is what he's best at, and they will not further sully their hands by training his replacement. He is valued, they will say. Exemplary work, they will say. Here's another, they will say, and if he knows what's good, what's best for his health, he won't say no.

At work, he is an entirely different person from who he is at home, and if he were to let it disturb him even the slightest, he knows his next job will be his last. He trusts Sato-san knows this without having to be told. He ought to be terrified, as any sane person would be, but he is far far from it. He is calm. He is self-assured. His muscles know better than his fragmented memory how he should act.

He compartmentalizes, Sato-san says. Everybody does it to some extent, but soldiers do more if it before nine a.m., than most people do all day. He says it's normal and healthy so long as it doesn't shift over to dissociation. 

Raidou's aware of that, and he assures Sato-san he is all too uncomfortably present. He is all too mindful, all too careful these days. He is managing his medication just fine, and he's been seizure free for over a year now. But he doesn't take chances; not especially when, on a balmy evening in June, while out shopping with Genma, the entire right half of his face goes numb, followed by his neck. Soon, it's spread down the outside of his arm, down to his fingertips, and they're already checking into the nearest clinic just to be sure he's not having a stroke.

He's amazed at how calm Genma is all throughout, even cracking the odd inappropriate joke, while Raidou quietly dictates his living will. Because he is certain he's losing his speech, and he wants to do this before it's too late.

He wants to know he'll be alright. He'll get on without him. He must. "I love you," Raidou says, again and again so he's sure it'll stick. "I love you, but so help me, if I find out you're planning anything drastic--I will haunt you."

"You're not dying," Genma reassures him, or rather implores him. Not here, not like this.

But he will someday. He's accepted that. He'd never thought he'd have to lay that on Genma or anybody; never thought he'd be so privileged; but here they are. "I'm happy I met you," he says, and now that the opiates have kicked in, everything is just lovely. "It's our anniversary, isn't it?"

"No, but close enough," Genma says. "How's your cocktail? Should I call the waiter for another?" 

Lady Tsunade must've liked to have kittens when the messenger bird landed on her desk, and Raidou can't blame her. All that hard work, building him back up to fighting form, only to have him die in some commercial backwater with a shopping bag in his hand. She is understandably leery about sending him and his team back to Wind Country the following week, but he will rally, because to send them all there alone, without his oversight and protection is unthinkable. He will not allow it. With all due respect, he tells her, either they all go, or none of them do.

In hindsight, he knows he ought to have taken censure over that. In hindsight, perhaps he has?

He hears through various channels, while there, that he'd taken the job from under another jounin--who would not be named, although his list of suspects begins and ends with Kakashi--and he'd be wise to not rub their noses in it upon his return. Which Genma finds uproarious. They ought to rub his princely nose in it, he says.

Let him think they dined in grand fashion with the Kazekage, and toured the markets by day as his guards, eating fruit and kebabs until they were sick of it; drinking tea and bhang lassies while they listened in on state secrets and personally solidified relations with the entire country. 

It's true, they do eat the fruit and kebabs, and Raidou does get quite sick from it; but for the most part, they eat sand. Sand for breakfast, sand for supper, sand for tea. The actual tea is quite good, but once you leave your tent, you'll soon be tasting sand again. That's why everyone here wears a scarf. Everyone. If you don't wear a scarf, if you don't learn to love the scarf, then that is your choice and may god be with you out in the bleak, sun blasted dessert, where the days average about forty-eight C., and the nights are shattering cold. Not to mention, there are scorpions everywhere; fire ants and poisonous pit-vipers with excellent camouflage; spiders as big as bread-rolls, and ponies with nasty teeth and rotten tempers. 

Fun for all ages indeed, but Raidou has never been happier to come home on a Monday and watch all of the other teams head out.

By eleven a.m., Raidou wants nothing more than a shower and a hot meal, but he takes some time aside to go visit his family, hug his nieces and nephews, and assure them that yes, they got the bad guys. 

How many were there, Taichi wants to know, and was he ever scared? Did he kill them? Did he use a sword? What was the fight like, and was there a great chase like in the dramas? Raidou's sister-in-law watches, her eyes distant and hard, until she's decided that's enough. Uncle Rai has had a long day, he'll probably want to go and rest now.

She is afraid, and it's not his place to examine why or to lend assurances. He gifts them with the silver tea-service he'd picked up, the fine Ceylon and Sadaf with cardamom, hugs his brother tightly, and leaves feeling strangely hollow.

He's just exhausted, he supposes. He shouldn't be letting it bother him. He tells Genma all about it after they've showered and are lying in bed unable to nap. He knows they're not in it for the acclaim, and he never set out to be a hero. He is no knight in shining armor. He is just a man with early-onset arthritis, a body with more patches than whole bits, and a retirement package he's increasingly tempted to cash out. If he's not going to enjoy it in old age, he reasons, why not enjoy it now? Why not fritter it away on vacations and expensive foods?

Genma leans up on one elbow and asks, "What happened to Gojira, King of Monsters?" 

"This isn't make-believe," Raidou sighs. "When we were boys, we used to play Ninja, didn't we? We'd chase each other, then 'whoosh, I've got you, now you're dead.'"

It's funny, but if he allows himself to think about it--to really let it sink in--he's not sure whether to laugh or throw up. Because it's not like they weren't aware. He's not sure he buys Sato-san's theory about the brain, about a person's moral center, not being fully developed until age twenty. He's not sure what it is in their makeup that suits them to being soldiers, but there must be something, some kink of DNA, some deep ancestral fault at work.

They must all be cracked, Raidou says; since who of sound mind would ever choose this as a career? 

Genma says, "In Fire Country, career chooses YOU!"

Raidou turns over and buries his face in the pillows. "Oh god, not this again--" He lets out a grunt as Genma's weight settles on top of him. "Saddle sores," he hisses. "I'm trying to have a serious discussion."

Genma breathes hot air into the crease of his neck and massages his shoulders; digging in deep to work out every knot. "Yeah, and I know you don't wanna hear it," he says. "But you're not a bad person."

"Cognitive dissonance," he answers. "That's what Iwashi calls it. The things we tell ourselves to make what we do seem right and just."

Genma says talk like that could get them killed. He says, "When someone's coming at you with a knife, you don't ask questions." 

No, you accept it as your due, and you thank god you survived. You don't pick at things. You go in, you get out, you get home. The sooner it's over, the better, the less time you've got to let it play with your head. Maybe that's why Raidou's having such a time of it. Two weeks on a job. Days and days of nothing at all happening; then, BANG, paper-bomb; BANG BANG BANG, one right after the other. He can't smell the dust, but it's everywhere, choking his lungs, gritting in his teeth. He can't see in front of him, can't see who's beside, but he can reach back and touch; he can reassure himself that person is there, breathing and unharmed.

Then Genma reminds him it's over. He's alright. They're here now, safe. 

He is alive, he thinks; thank god, he is alive. 

It is early afternoon, the sun still gentle in the sky, and they lie spooned quietly until Genma dozes off; his soft breath tickling the hairs on Raidou's neck. He has earned this, and so Raidou lets him sleep. He strokes the callused edge of his palm with one idle thumb, and distracts himself by planning tomorrow morning's breakfast. They report for administrative duty at seven-hundred hours, but their schedule's a light one. In bed by ten, he figures, up by five should give them plenty of time. He'll make ochazuke with boiled egg, kimchee and smoked herring. They'll grab coffee at the standby station and meet up later to get groceries for supper, and as Raidou's planning out the list of things they'll need, he drifts off to sleep.

Genma wakes him a bit later for some tea, and asks if he's still up to going out. They've got plans to meet back up with the rest of the squad, plus Anko and Aoba-- who are very much not at all dating--for sukiyaki. "Personally," Genma says. "I'd be happy to stay home, but it's up to you."

Raidou's head hurts, but he'll be good if he takes his medication now. He'll be good after a walk and some fresh air. He's hungry and there's not much food in the house; he says he'll be good if he can just eat something. 

He'll be good as long as he sits with his back to the wall. The restaurant is fairly quiet, the lighting is dim, and the food is cheap but decent. He starts off with a plate of pickles and grilled chicken skewers, another cup of tea, and feels miles better. He doesn't mention how much the massage had helped, but secretly nudges Genma's leg under the table, and gives him a reassuring smile. 

Still, Aoba wonders if he shouldn't get himself checked over; just as a precaution. 

Raidou studies his menu. "Heard, understood, ignored." He looks around and sees the group of younger Chuunin and Jounin, teams seven and ten, rubbernecking towards them. Well, Naruto is, until Sakura yanks him back.

"And it's lovely to see you too," Aoba gushes. "How's Edith and the kids?" 

Genma pats him on the shoulder. "Don't mind," he says. "Things have been a little rough down at the office this week."

"Boss been putting the spurs to you, eh? Been riding you pretty hard, I hear."

"Not your business," Raidou says, quite without thinking. "Who's for appetizers, then?"

They order a round of side-dishes, a round of drinks, and Raidou sits quietly eavesdropping on the other tables. He's in a somewhat better frame of mind now, but he can't help mentally mapping the exits, feeling out every blind spot; planning their escape route should things go sour.

He catches Iwashi saying something about the tea in Suna, and his mind flashes back to that close-call in the desert, where they almost watched him die. Iwashi laughs about it now; he'd laughed about it immediately afterwards, embarrassed, admitting he nearly shat himself. He was covered in so much dirt, it was hard to see where or if he was injured. Raidou had held onto him while someone sent for a medic, a precaution, and remembers the raw voltage of his terrified pulse, the cut above his eye that bled freely once they'd wiped his face. Iwashi kept saying don't mind, don't mind. Don't worry, don't mind.

They still had a job to do, Iwashi said, and they ought to go catch his horse before it got blown to bits. He was fine, the little snot; it was Raidou who wasn't. Genma reported he'd gone ash white, and his eyes had this terrible thousand-yard stare. They all worried he was done-for, when Baki produced a small thermos from his vest pouch. A little bitter medicine, he'd said--plain tea, nothing more--and Raidou had never tasted anything so welcome in his life.

Raidou looks up to Iwashi topping off his drink. "What's that?" He says, laughing.

"A little bitter medicine," Iwashi says. "Kampai."

They all raise their glasses and tip them back; Raidou bites into a whole chili, while Iwashi stares at him, aghast.

"A little bitter medicine," Raidou parrots back, coughing. "How are we feeling, then?"

Iwashi sighs into his beer. "Tired."

Aoba says, "How about that bhang choco, eh? That'll help you sleep!"

"We smoked some, actually," Iwashi says. "All it did was make me hungry."

"Yeah," says Genma. "It'll do that."

As well as make you paranoid, but then so does a land-mine going off a yard from where you were just seconds ago. Iwashi did not sleep much at all after that, and it's likely he won't again tonight. The bhang is seductive, it relieves pain; it lulls you into a warm, dream-like state, and in Suna they sell it in its purest form, medicinally. Here in Konoha, cannabis is strictly controlled, so they drink liquor and beer. They soak in hot-springs. They stay up late telling stories. 

Iwashi wonders aloud when their next deployment will be and where, for how long.

Genma laughs and says, "Slow your roll there, junior. We only just got back."

Aoba says, "I heard you were lucky to survive!" 

Nonetheless, Iwashi goes on excitedly about how, in Suna, they train the horses to take falls, to roll over and hop right back up again like judoka. His mount was kind of green--he should have been given an older, more docile pony, Baki had said, one that wouldn't move around too much--but he insisted on _that_ one.

"Because it looked fast."

Baki had laughed knowingly and said fast isn't always better. Sometimes it's better to go slow, or not at all. They'd had to set the horses loose when a pair of snipers pinned them at the pass, and they laid low for several minutes--that felt more like hours--until Iwashi got a bead on their position. They managed to take one alive, barely, and though he was loathe to have to do so, Raidou extracted intel while Shizune made a game attempt at treating the man's wounds. Too late. They'd hit the hepatic artery, She said, and nothing much they could do. It might take two, maybe five minutes, or she could make it easier with drugs.

He never answers, but passes quietly through her fingertips while Iwashi times.

Thirty, maybe forty-five seconds, his expression wide and frozen, his hands and his stopwatch coated layer upon layer with blood and sand. One minute. That's quite fast for a wild shot, but of course he won't be satisfied with that. It's a curious mix of horror and disappointment, and surely there must be better ways. 

He never outright asks, but his eyes have drawn a bead on Raidou, and all around camp that day, he follows like a wounded puppy until, finally, Raidou sits him down.

He could teach him all about poisons and piercing tools, about the surest way to behead a man--one clean stroke, like swinging a baseball bat--but he cannot in good conscience. He's not going to hug him and pat his back and tell him it's alright, but he's got his own little flask of whiskey to pull from, and Iwashi takes to it like a man starved of oxygen. The mission may not be done, but he is. 

The faster they're able to get home, the better, and now he's talking about going out again. He must be dreading an empty bed tonight. He must dread the inevitable hours, alone with his thoughts, the endless slideshow loop of images that plays behind his eyelids; the sounds and tastes; the textures. Another mission is just the thing to distract a man. Endorphins wipe the pain and exhaustion away. Taking orders, praise for the right actions, eases any doubt. Never stopping means never having to think, or feel, until you'd like to collapse. 

Raidou says, "Go easy on the rest of us, at least. We haven't all got your energy."

"That's not what you said last time," Iwashi snorts. "I nearly froze to death pissing against a tree, and you kept saying hurry it up, let's get moving. We haven't got all year."

"Bang-on impression of me before puberty," Raidou says. "And it wasn't remotely that cold."

It's far colder on the steppes of Iron country. A remote village set firmly between the arse-cheeks of a mountainside, cast in perfect shadow almost year round. There, you really could freeze while taking a piss. At minus twenty centigrade, a pot of boiling water will vaporize instantly when thrown from a yurt. "Think on that," Raidou says. "It's not like a solid icicle or anything."

Iwashi says, "Thank god. Could you imagine?"

"Quite vividly," Raidou says. "But why don't you paint us a picture?" 

Iwashi colors bright red, and everyone laughs. Everyone but Genma, that is. Later on, he'll corral Raidou at the lavatory sink and ask if maybe he shouldn't dial it back.

Raidou says, "I've only had one beer."

"Two," Genma says. "And I meant dial it back with Iwashi."

"We're only having a bit of banter," Raidou says, carelessly flicking his hands dry. "What's got you so worried all of a sudden?"

"You really don't remember. During that mission...."

No. There was never anything going on with Iwashi. He'd remember that for sure. He'd remember if they'd spoken. He'd remember if they'd touched. He'd remember if they'd kissed, and if it'd happened more than once, and kept happening like they were two magnets drawn together. Once at the cabin, again at the inn, again in the woods, pushing their clothes aside, desperate, knowing they shouldn't.

Since surely Raidou knows this goes against his every precept. Surely, he's got better judgment, better morals than this. Surely, it's been two years. It's not as if Iwashi's been carrying a torch for him all this time.

Genma will neither confirm nor deny. He just leaves Raidou at the mirror to try and piece things back together, to puzzle out who is the bastard here. Is it Genma for exercising such perfectly shitty timing? Or is it Raidou?

And Raidou's reflection stares back at him, blankly accusatory. It doesn't matter. Your hand was down his pants, sir. You felt his cock, sir. Yes, you did. Now you've got to go back out there and finish your food. Like everything's normal. Compartmentalize. It's what you're best at, isn't it?

Laugh, smile, and top off the beer he really shouldn't be drinking, while beside him, Iwashi mimes being pried off a frozen piss-stalk, using Raidou's hip as a foot-stop.

"Oi, Raidou, go help Iwashi again. He's stuck to that tree!"

"Alright, enough, enough," Raidou says.

"To be fair, senpai, you started it."

"Right, and now I'm going to finish it." He pops another whole chili in his mouth, the voice of calm authority indeed, and washes it down with his beer. "We're in mixed company, alright? No more frozen willies or urination jokes. Let's all talk about something else." 

"Like the deficit," Aoba says.

"No, no, no deficit," says Shizune. "Frozen wieners. I want to hear about frozen wieners."

Genma says, "Maybe we all don't."

"I do," Anko snarls. She's right around beer number three, and she says, "I've been dying to know...when you're in the bath-tub...."

Aoba reaches over to top off her pint. "Yeah?"

"Does it sink, or float?" 

After a brief go-around confirming she means the penis, and not something else, Iwashi volunteers that his floats; while Raidou's, of course, just sort of lies there. When pressed on how exactly he knows that, and why so quick with the intel, he feigns choking.

Genma offers to thump him on the back, and he manfully refuses. "But it's your job to get hit."

In clear retrospect, he isn't quite joking, but at present it's all good comedy.

Let him do it, Iwashi. Be a man. Just once on the butt, okay? Aoba, you'll grab hold of his ankles, and Raidou--

Is having none of this. "Hands off him. Now."

Aoba freezes to the spot. Never before has Raidou seen a man's expression wiped so suddenly clean. Silence. Then a glass clinks, someone picks up a plate, the dam breaks, and around them, everyone starts talking again. 

Iwashi rights himself from across Raidou's thighs. "Come on, senpai, we're just messing around." 

Aoba waves him off. "No, no, we were out of hand. Isn't that right?"

Yes, well out of hand. Have some more beer. Some old bitter medicine, eh? But that Iwashi, he's quite the comedian, isn't he? 

"Oh, a real riot," Genma says. "You ever maybe think of quitting your day-job?"

"And doing what?"

"Comedy," says Genma. "You seem to find everything so funny, I thought--"

"Easy," Aoba says. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"

Genma pecks fitfully at a plate of salted edamame. For a moment, he'd gone quite black about the eyes, but now he's back to looking tired. He's sorry, he says, he didn't mean anything by it.

Although, Shizune says, it's not a bad question. Had Iwashi always planned on being a Shinobi, or had ever thought of doing something else?

Iwashi pauses heavily over his chopsticks, then shakes his head. "No," he says. "Although I hear construction work makes okay money."

Aoba says, "I heard you were afraid of heights."

"What? From whom?"

Aoba points to Genma with his chin. Iwashi shoots them each a deeply betrayed look and resumes eating.

"Anyway," Aoba says, "why all this sudden talk about changing careers?"

Raidou says, "No-one's changing careers. At least not me at my age."

"Never too early for a mid-life crisis," Aoba says. "You know, last month, you decided to take up watercolors. What happened to that?"

"Tss." Raidou turns back to the table, and suddenly ravenous, digs into his noodles. He says, "Both you know and I know there hasn't been much time. Has there?"

"Excuses," Aoba says. "Better to regret the things you've done than the things you haven't done!"

Shizune raises her glass. "Kampai!"

And beside her, there's another one. Iwashi snickering behind his wrist. "Draw me like one of your French girls...."

Raidou nudges his elbow off the table, causing him to drop a mushroom. "And what are your hobbies? Hang around a lot of construction sites, do you?"

"Nosir, not that I'd judge anyone who did."

Genma leans ominously towards the table, while Raidou laughs.

Iwashi says, "Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not bad with horses."

"As in, falling off of?"

"Right," Iwashi says. "Tell me what you'd do, then. If you could've made a different choice. Factor out all the variables that led you to becoming a Shinobi and tell me--what else is there?"

There's the rub. Raidou says, "You can't."

Iwashi says he's not using his imagination. He says, "I'd like to see one of your paintings, senpai."

Raidou says, "I'd like to see you after some of the shit I've seen, son. I'd like to see you laughing then."

Iwashi belts out an apology. He'd meant no disrespect.

Raidou waves him off. Honestly, none taken, and he hadn't meant to come off so harsh. "It's just us artists," he says. "We can be sensitive at times."

Some of the shit he's seen, he knows Iwashi's seen it too. Seen it and done it, just like every person at this table, Shizune included. They are, none of them, without taint. 

When they buried those two men on the outskirts of Suna, Iwashi asked him if he believed in Hell. And if there is a Hell, what would a person have to do to get sent there? If killing is a sin no matter what, then aren't they all murderers? If veniality is a sin, if this is what they're paid to do, then aren't they all usurers?

They are, Baki agrees, and that is unfortunate; but what is necessary, he says, is not always good. 

Who decides what is good, then? Who are they to say where to draw that line? If they are to be right, they must be right all the way, and if they are to be the least bit wrong, then they must start questioning everything. In order to eliminate the variables, they must dismantle everything--down to the bare bones. Then, after that, what's left?

"So, how about that deficit?" Aoba says, over distant strains of revelry.

A chorus of nods and silently raised glasses and damn that deficit! The teenagers stare at them from across the aisle, and Raidou tries his best not to pick at things. 

It's bad luck and bad etiquette to talk shop over dinner. Missions are debriefed as soon as they arrive home, and after that they are expected to forget about it.

Better to talk about the basest most foul toilet matters before bringing up a mission. Better they talk about the difference between whiskey vomit and red wine. Better they talk at great discerning lengths about whether penises sink or float, and really, how do they walk with those things just flopping around? Another beer, please, and is Raidou sure he's alright? He looks a bit gray since he'd come back from the lavatory. He shouldn't really be drinking, should he?

No, he shouldn't, but he's perfectly fine. It's just warm in here, that's all. 

It was warm inside the observation tent. The next day before they were due to head home, he'd woken to Iwashi's hand on his hip, to his morning erection pressed tender and stiff along the back of one thigh, and it all makes sense now.

It's well into the evening when finally they head outside, the night dewy and fragrant with petrichor. That's the smell of rain on dry earth, Iwashi says. It's a good top-shelf word, the kind you pull out at parties where everyone's just drunk enough to be impressed. It must've rained recently, and the day's heat has sunken deep into the sidewalks and cobblestones. The bars are still open, and there are late-night food stalls pitching greasy tidbits designed to ward off hangovers, but otherwise it's quiet. Most of the village has retreated inside, sat down to dinner, and the various guards, patrols, and sentries go about their business unobtrusively, not wishing to bother anybody.

They are used to the heightened security these days, the need-to-know mentality of those in charge. There's been a curfew on since last week's grave robbery incident, and it's likely to remain in effect indefinitely: with men stationed on rooftops, at corners, men smoking in kiosks, playing cards with weapons propped against their knees; no kids out after dusk, and no unsanctioned travel anywhere, for any reason.

People say this is how a war begins: first they shut the gates, then they close the shops, then the bombs go off. Orochimaru was just the start of it, just a splinter, and what's to come will make him look positively friendly by comparison.

All during the walk from the restaurant to the hot springs, Genma refuses to talk about it. The brain injury and memory loss are beyond Raidou's control, but this all happened before that, and he doesn't owe him an explication for why he's angry about it now, all of a sudden, when things seemed fine before.

It's not that hard a question, but it seems to strike him through the very heart. He totters on his feet, and then brushes Raidou's hand aside when Raidou tries to steady him. 

"We did talk about it," he says. "Do you really not remember?"

"No," Raidou says, and he is frankly still as floored by the information as Genma must have been. "Look, whatever you thought was happening at the restaurant...you have to believe me."

He says, "It's fine. Can we just drop it for now?"

Raidou would actually rather not, but for the sake of company, he's got no choice.

Behind them, a scrape of footfalls. Aoba calls out, "Hey, everything alright, you guys?"

"We're fine," Genma says, as if it's at all anyone else's business, and that's the last they breathe of it until the bath-house.

There, they undress and argue over the dinner bill like nothing ever happened. They carry on and misbehave the same as always, and if there is even an undercurrent of anger and resentment left from outside, Genma's quite careful not to let on.

"If you must keep asking, you couldn't afford it," Raidou insists. "You just wanted to look like a big man picking up the check, didn't you?"

To which Genma lifts up his bath-towel and flashes his junk. Behind him, Iwashi lets out a scandalized noise.

"Lewd! Lewd! That towel is way over the line!"

"Oh, the towel is?" Genma does an about face and bows, flashing his picture-perfect bottom. "Good day to you, sir. My business card...."

"Now wink at him," Aoba says, turning back to poke at Iwashi again; and really, he makes it too damn easy. "I get to hit you if you flinch, and no running in the showers."

Iwashi doesn't run, he disappears. Raidou finds him minutes later--his face still blushing magenta--sunk up to his eyelids in a thermal pool, the rest of him tucked fetal beneath the water. 

"Hey," Aoba says, reaching down to poke him in the forehead. "You didn't just jump in without washing off, did you?"

The water bubbles ominously around his nostrils.

"Just leave him," Raidou says. "There's nobody here to complain."

Aoba makes a comment about 'pubic-soup' that makes even Genma grimace, and through the partitioning wall, they hear a faint laugh and gurgle of disgust. Anko and Shizune.

"Oi," Genma calls out. "I know how tempting it is, but you'd better not try and peep."

Anko shouts back without missing a beat. "I'd sooner eat shit and die." 

It's nineteen-hundred hours on a summer weeknight, and outside the six of them, the onsen is quite empty. Raidou supposes everyone else has deployed or gone home. Either way, he says, that doesn't mean they're allowed to misbehave. "Aoba."

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

Genma fans his towel. "Yeah, the picture of innocence."

"Are you ever one to talk!"

Raidou says, "Both of you--"

"Gee, Dad," Aoba rejoins, "you never let us have any fun!"

Beside him, Iwashi sits smirking into his sake cup, while Genma casually winds his towel into a rat-tail. Raidou coughs loudly, a decision for which he'll pay later on, and alerts Aoba. Too late. Aoba stands and gets a crack across the shoulders for his troubles. He and Genma tear around the courtyard for a couple of laps, the latter cackling like mad, and finally end back at the pool, breathlessly negotiating a truce while Iwashi shields himself behind Raidou's back.

All in good fun so long as no-one gets hurt. 

It's easy to lie here, amidst the gently swirling petals, and forget this is not a god-damn holiday; that they are in the midst of a long and escalating period of what their government calls 'tension.' (As if the answer to everyone's problems is a massage and a nice cup of tea.) The cable comes in at sun-up and pulls them from their nice, freshly starched sheets. Old man Chiriku of the Fire Temple, one of Konoha's notorious twelve guardians, was killed just hours ago, assassinated, and the elders of Konoha and Hi-no-kuni are rightfully anxious over the coming fallout. They have embedded agents all throughout the five great countries, and chatter on every channel that Akatsuki grows ever more active, ever hungrier for bounty heads. Genma says good head is rather priceless, and Raidou must refrain from cracking up in the middle of a briefing. As if it's all a big fucking joke. 

Aoba reminds him his price has risen since last year, to which Raidou finally laughs. "Come back to me when it's closer to a billion, and I just might turn myself in." 

Aoba follows him out onto the breezeway. "Yeah, yukk it up. Do you know what happens when they get hold of you?"

They dismember you. They cut off your head, pack it on ice, and stow the rest in a cold-storage facility, hidden in back of a public latrine. Raidou's helped take down several of them, only to see another several spring back up, like poisonous mushrooms that thrive in the damp, and he has no intention of ending up in one.

"But don't tell me," he says. "You were up all night worrying about me, weren't you?"

"Hardly," Aoba grunts. "I'm just saying you should watch your neck. Considering how you tend to stick out--"

"Another comment about my height? You know, I don't have to take that from a half-stack like you."

Aoba fidgets with his glasses. "I'm five-eight. Though, coming from a giraffe, I suppose--"

"Coming from a cricket, you mean."

"Crickets are good luck! What good's a giraffe, though, huh? What good is passing out every time you bend down at a watering hole? Huh?"

"I'll draw the crocodiles away so all the other animals can escape."

"Just like that, eh?"

"Just like that."

He's already made his peace with it, and no, he and Genma are not still fighting. In fact, they're barely speaking. They haven't had a chance since the wire came in, but that's not important now. He is already up on the rooftop with the other troops, stiff at attention, his face betraying nothing, and Raidou would keep it that way. A battle ready soldier is a dog primed and trained to bite: anything and everything that gets in his way. Should anything happen to distract him from that state, for even a second, he's as good as dead.

Asuma fiddles with one of his vest pouches at intervals all throughout the debriefing. Ino stares at him across a row of uncomfortable faces, blue eyes like ice-chips in the morning sun, her arms crossed behind her hips, while Chouji solemnly tries to keep his crisp bag from crinkling too loud. Shikamaru looks over just as they're being dismissed, over his two comrades and his sensei, and yawns, and Raidou will remember this moment with unfortunate clarity.


	6. Chapter 6

6\. 

The service is brief. After a plain breakfast, eggs, rice, coffee, Genma helps Raidou with his funeral gi, fussing over the front fold until they're about to be late. It's fine, Raidou tells him, leave it be. Everyone's expecting them. A sea of black birds in stiffly flocked regiments, soldiers; if there's one thing they know how to do, it's queue up in rows. Listen to speeches. Keep calm and carry on.

Pretend not to cry in front of the younger Shinobi, in front of the children, as Ino pretends not to do.

Behind her stands Inoichi, Nordic blue eyes squinted straight ahead, Raidou and Aoba flanking his left and right sides, while the procession trickles by with aching slowness, to the very last person. Asuma had quite a lot of comrades. A lot of flowers wilting in the summer heat. By the time they've all started filing off to the wake, Genma's fanning himself and his gi is undone.

Raidou moves to tug it closed. "For god's sake, where do you think we are?"

"The ballet," he says acidly. "I was hot."

"And tomorrow you'll be complaining it's cold."

Genma pokes his tongue-tip between his teeth. It's before elevenses, so there's no toothpick to suck. He starts to go for his lower lip, already chewed ragged since last night, but Raidou stops him. No picking, they'd promised.

"Just leave it," he says, shoving Raidou unsubtly towards the exit. Towards home. 

"What, you're not still mad at me?"

Genma burrows his head in between Raidou's shoulder-blades. For a while he just stands there, then a sniffle, then his arms come around to encircle Raidou's waist. 

"Walk," he orders. 

"Here, now--"

"I'm taking you hostage. So just walk."

The wind stirs lazily through the trees, and somewhere a cicada drones. Hobbled, Raidou leads Genma up the crunching gravel path; his soft, gulping sobs muffled by the starched fabric of his gi; his hands clasped tightly to keep himself from collapsing.

Raidou understands. As much as Genma prides himself on being direct and speaking his mind, and not giving a good solid frick what people think of him, he is still, at heart, a Shinobi. He cannot let anyone, not even Raidou, see his tears. Not until they've left the mall, and have crested the catwalk overlooking the hills, way up high where it's nice and secluded, does he finally loosen his hold. 

Raidou slows to let him orient himself, reaches to steady him as they walk. There is a shaded cupola up ahead, a rest point sheltered by the rocks and trees, and a nice view of the village below. "We used to come here when we were kids," Raidou says. "Do you remember?"

Genma frowns up at him. 

"We'd just made Chuunin," Raidou says. "You, me, and Asuma. We made plans to meet here and celebrate--"

Only, Asuma flaked on them, and so it was just Genma waiting there at the top, dangling his legs and doing spit bungees like the thirteen year old little shit he was. When he noticed Raidou watching, he made a bratty face and decreed they go hunt Asuma down like the traitor he was. Or else.

It was for Raidou's sake. Because he'd never speak out against his own teammates, never fight back, never show his hurt. He'd idolized Asuma, envied his maturity, his unflappability. The second time Asuma ran away, he'd gone as far as the temple. The monks brought him back immediately, but he seemed pleased with himself, sure he'd get away with it next time. He'd forsworn Raidou to solemn secrecy, and in a bout of childish idiocy, they'd each pricked their thumbs and exchanged blood.

It was Kurenai who gave him up the third time. She'd been furious at Asuma for disappearing without a word, and furious at Raidou for lacking the spine to try and stop him. Teammates don't conspire against one another, she'd said, and the next time Asuma wanted to do something foolish, the least they could do was include her. 

"Eh, Raidou?"

Genma's hand is on his wrist, and for the first time, he looks down to find his own hand latched onto the rail in a white-knuckled death grip. He looks up to find Genma still frowning at him, puzzled. Asking if he's alright. 

"I'm fine," he says thickly. "I just...remembered something."

"Sounds like it must hurt."

Now Raidou looks away, out over the trees. Far down on the water below, a toy boat drifts by, followed soon by a small fleet, and it does hurt. It does. Like reaching down his own throat and unraveling himself from the inside out. Like the first time he ever got angry with a friend, the first time he and Asuma ever came to blows. He was older than Asuma by a handful of years, so he should've been the bigger man. He should've been there this time, instead. 

"Like a true Shinobi," Raidou mutters. "That's what I told them. He died like a true Shinobi."

"How's that?"

Raidou shakes his head. "It's...are we still...are you still...."

With a soft sound of frustration, Genma tips sideways and head-butts him in the shoulder. Hard. "For the fuck-teenth time, no. I'm not mad."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Because you sure sound it."

Genma laughs ominously. "I swear, Raidou. I swear to god. You enjoy pissing me off, don't you?"

For the first time in a very long time, Raidou relaxes. "I live for it," he says. "The way your face gets all pouty? Ahh--I just want to pinch that cheek of yours."

"The last man who tried that no longer has his fingers."   
"Sorry," Raidou says. "I'm sorry. I mean it this time, I know I upset you, even if I can't remember how--"

"That's not your fault."

"I'm sorry, still." 

He's not about to go making excuses. Say he was shell-shocked, say he was vulnerable, say whatever he'd like, but he remembers pieces of it now. The mezzanine. The explosion. He remembers getting hit and staggering back. Waking up, his hand to his chest. Iwashi's hands catching him, and it wasn't something he'd planned. It was just because he'd been there. A warm body. Someone to help banish the nightmares. He'd forgotten himself at the restaurant, and honestly, had Genma not brought it up--

It could've remained buried. Deep in his heart of selfish hearts, Raidou could have lived quite happily not knowing what a complete and utter bastard he could be. He's only got half a mind, after all. He wounds so easily, cries so easily, forgets so easily. Nothing is ever his fault.

"I don't want things to be over," Raidou says. "I'd miss your face too much."

"And the rest of me?"

"That too."

"Then don't just say you're sorry," he says. "Don't just do that and expect me to know what you're apologizing for." He says, "This isn't a televised drama. This doesn't end when one person says they're sorry!"

And damn him, Raidou cannot resist opening his stupid trap. "Ah! I knew you were mad."

"Oi--"

"You're right, I'm sorry." 

Genma sighs roughly into his shoulder. "No, I'm sorry," he says. "At a time like this, why are we even fighting?"

Raidou can answer that. "Because I infuriate you." And he does so on purpose, knowing he'll provoke a reaction. "Because I'm an idiot." 

"No, you're not."

"I am. I really am an idiot," he says. "And that's got nothing to do with me getting my brains scrambled."

Genma shoves against his shoulder, but lightly this time. He says, "You're not about to go blaming this on your dick, Raidou. You're better than that."

"Am I?" 

"You are," he says. "And I'm sorry for the way I lashed out. I know this may come as a shock to you, but even I'm not perfect." Even after all they've been through together with Raidou's injuries, sometimes he forgets. He fails to understand things perfectly, to know what it's like inside Rai-chan's head. For that, he is sorry, and he wonders if Raidou can ever forgive him. 

Raidou says, "You've got nothing to apologize for."

"You're wrong," He says. "I have everything to apologize for. All of this, ever since the fight--"

"Come on, now. We're not doing this." Raidou grasps the top the his arm. "You, blaming yourself is not going to change things. You know that."

"Still, I feel responsible." He's swaying now, gently rocking them both on their feet. "I thought you'd died. I thought you were dead. And I let it happen. I couldn't do a thing--"

"I'm not dead, though," Raidou says. "I'm here. We're talking. Alright?"

He nods soggily into Raidou's shoulder.

It's true that Genma led them both unwittingly into a curb-stomp battle, and it's true that they both had no business running off when they were just struggling to make it home in one piece. But he'd still be the way he is regardless of all that. He'd still have headaches. He'd still forget things. He'd always always have struggles, and he'd always have damage, and in order to get past all that, they'd have to invent a time-machine and stop him from running across that field at age five. Stop the war that left the land mine there, stop the system that necessitated there being a war, and the people they'd have to become in order to fight it.

But since Raidou's not smart enough to do that, they must live with the fallout. 

"What now?" Genma says.

They pick up the pieces and move forward, as they've always done. Shower and change into uniform, log administrative hours and prepare to fill in the scheduling gaps left by Asuma's death. Stop for tea and dango at 15:00, then debrief. Return home and cry in the shower, get dressed, prepare dinner for his fiance. Discuss the legality of their eventual wedding, review their finances until one or both of them gets frustrated and they agree this is all really fucking stupid, just like responsible, ordinary adults. Then, at 20:00 unable to sleep, Raidou goes for a walk alone; past the memorial, up the pebbled path to the promontory overlooking the hills. There, at the very top, he scales the freshly painted railing, and jumps.

With a jolt, he is back in his bed. Heart pounding, drenched in terror sweat. Clinging onto Genma for dear life. "Don't let go," he begs. "Don't let go. Don't let me go--"

He debates telling Sato-san about that one. About any of it. He wars with himself.

He sits chewing his cuticles, and he fishes amongst thoughts like a tangle of eels; a weighty, stinking mass of them that forever evades capture. Forever, he is unable to make sense of it all. How it's never any good or useful information he retains, like where he left his coffee cup, or if he'd brushed his teeth that morning; it's only whatever haunts him. His failures, his sins, his demons. 

Like the men who murdered Asuma. Ask Raidou how big the bounty would've been, and he can tell you to the penny. He can tell you how his hands and his muscles recall the weight of his sword rebounding off of hardened skin; so he can't pick up a t.v. remote without his heart beating faster, his mouth going dry, his vision slowly expanding until it's swallowed him whole. How he checks his weapons every time it looks like rain, but never has the presence of forethought to grab an umbrella. 

He apologizes for dripping on the carpet, and he debates telling of the many times he truly considered ending it, and how guilty it still makes him feel. 

Sato-san says it does sound like he's got shell-shock, it does sound as if he's depressed, and that's why they're here. 

Raidou chews on that for long moments, then he asks Sato-san, "Do you see a lot of other patients?" 

"I'm bound by confidentiality," he says. "But, yes. Many more than you can imagine." 

He thinks Sato-san underestimates him. Because he looks around and all he sees are damaged people, walking wounded, thousand yard stares. He sees it at the office and in the lunchroom; he sees it at the guard station and the library; staring at him from an open doorway, hard-eyed, can't be more than six years old. That child will need therapy one day, and he hopes she survives long enough to benefit from it.

He is with Genma at the clinic when it happens. 

A routine check-up, they'd said, nothing to worry about. So, of course, Genma has to be bribed, coaxed, and finally dragged there. Because he knows they're going to tell him one of two things: a) it's nothing and he's just being a big baby about things, or b) it's terminal, and he'll be dead in a fortnight. In either case, they ought to just cut their losses and go home.

"Here, now," says Raidou. "Can we not worry about that before we've even signed in?"

They've only just made it the reception desk when the rumbling starts. The cabinets start to rattle, the window blinds start to sway, and there comes that moment where everyone in the office acknowledges an earthquake is happening, and they all pause, foolishly hoping to wait it out. Ready to laugh and go about their business the second it stops. Only it doesn't, and Raidou will forever come back to the moment the walls buckled and caved inwards. He will replay it late at night, lying on his futon, and remember the great calm that descended upon him like a rolling breaker. 

He is proud to say he never panicked.

He kept his head about him while everything collapsed into chaos, and he found Genma right by his side within their earthen barrier, and he remembers Genma just giving him this nod. Amidst the drifting dust, the slow dawning realization of what had just happened, he wanted Raidou to know he was alright. Go and help the other survivors, he was saying, don't worry about me.

Now it's another week later and he thinks he is scott free. No more clinic means no more blood test. No blood test means everything's normal, which means he can have a cookie now and then, and if anyone so much as side-eyes him, he'll eat them too. 

When Sato-san asks how they're managing, Raidou says they're managing. Somehow. 

They're living in a tent with four other men and sharing latrines with the entire barracks, just like the good old days; nuts to butts, and zero privacy to be had. Just fart and penis jokes for days, arse pokes, masturbation references, and Genma's snitty now because Raidou says the Chuunin make him look quite mature by comparison.

Genma says, "I'm always mature." 

Right, right, Sato-san says over his cards, and they'll have to pardon him. He's not laughing about that. It's just, his son told him a good one the other day. His son's a Chuunin, by the way. He's the youngest, of course. Sato-san says he had two other girls, already grown, when Saitou came along--

"Excuse me, Sato Saitou?" Genma interrupts again.

Sato-san's smile takes up his entire face. "Yes, my little Saitou! Though he's almost eighteen, now. He was our bonus baby. I thought Michiko was going to have my head! Oh, I'm calling, by the way."

Raidou places his cards down, two pair. A wiser man would have folded by now, but he's not got a whole lot riding on this hand. Just time spent with an old friend. He asks what division Saitou's in, what connection if any they might share.

Sato-san waves him off. "Oh, infantry, I doubt you've met. Shiranui-san, I've called."

"Tss." Genma slaps his cards down. "My sugar's low," is his excuse this time.

Raidou knows better than telling how to play, though he should have folded on the flop.

Sato-san lays down a flush. "Better luck next time, eh?"

"Right," says Genma. "Your deal."

It's really coming down outside. Raidou imagines the men are all a bit stir crazy back at the good old tiger-cage, and he imagines the shit Iwashi's bound to give him about tracking his muddy footprints all over the nice, clean, imaginary carpet. And as tempting as it is to laugh and fire back--for a champion little cocksucker, Tatami sure does loooove the gay jokes--he must be mindful around the others. He must be mindful, always, that there is a certain order to things, and it is his job to preserve that.

In the village, you keep peace with your neighbors, and they respect your privacy in turn. In the military, you are the unit and the unit is you; you are not exceptional, you don't rock the boat, and you are prized unconditionally. You are eulogized unconditionally. You are disposed of unconditionally. 

In Fire Country, job does you good!

When you go out of country, as part of your briefing, you receive the same frequently updated folio as all the other Shinobi, irrespective of rank. It tells you about the local laws and customs, what is considered legal and illegal, and what could even get you killed. Being soldiers does afford them some privilege, but be wary of who you fraternize with. A condom will protect you against most STIs, up to and including pregnancy, but it won't protect you in front of a tribunal. 

Lots of nervous giggles and more than a few raised hands when they come to that bit. That's only if you get caught, eh? 

In Hiruzen's time, he'd shut it down with a good, judicious throat-clearing, and Raidou would carry out his due diligence by staring blankly ahead; an imposing, asexual robot, who can and will take you apart if you step even a little out of line. 

But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't afraid: for all of them, and for himself. He wouldn't be joking if he admitted a bit of urine leaked out that night on the ice-blasted steppes, alone and foolishly separated from his team, when he feared he'd been clocked. It did not freeze his willie to his leg, but dried rather instantly, leaving no evidence behind. He was a shaking shambles by the time he returned to the yurt, while their host went on growing more and more inebriated, laughing and waving his weapon around without a care in the world. He remembers Genma watching him sidelong and being unable to say anything. When they returned home, alive by the grace of god, he'd just as soon forget it ever happened.

The devil of it all is that he cannot. He cannot ever be allowed to forget that, in certain parts of the world, they hang people like him. They stone people like him to death, not for the crime of murder or the crime of terrorism, but for the crime of loving. How fortunate he is to be a citizen of Konoha, where he cannot legally marry his partner, and the best people can do is make tasteless jokes about who wears the apron.

Not in their tent, not their men; they're all a bit smarter than that. But around camp, at the mess and the gedunk, at the baths, they nudge each other. They motion with their chins and think this is the height of subtlety. They say boys will be boys, and any port in a storm, eh, sailor? 

He knows that last one's about Genma, and if Raidou could, he'd sit them all right the hell down and explain a thing or two about professional conduct and protocol, and how neither he nor Genma is the wife. Around camp, they are sir and senpai, and neither one of them are 'clearly up for it'; nor are any of the kunoichi with whom they have all been privileged enough to work. Yes, Raidou knows very well what a futon is. No, he's never eaten maguro off of one, and if he ever hears that sort of talk around his camp again, he'll have that person slopping latrines for the rest of their very short lives.

He knows they'd listen, too. He can be highly persuasive when he's of a mind. But where's the point in it? Stamp down one mushroom, Shizune likes to say, and another will surely spring up in its place. Kill one rogue ninja, and at any given moment, there is a baker's dozen waiting for the right trigger to activate. 

Sasuke's bounty went public yesterday, and it's a large one. Raidou was, of course, given the right of first refusal; just a formality, he understands, and not something to spend any amount of time wrestling over. The boy is a criminal guilty of desertion, of murder, of highest treason according to Lord Danzou. But he is still a citizen of Konoha, and with respect to Kakashi, Raidou must recuse himself. He must state for the record he is unfit, and he believes Kakashi is also, and he ought not to be shocked when Kakashi does not fall all over himself thanking Raidou for that. 

Sato-san contemplates his hand. "I know we're not in therapy here--but how did that make you feel?"

"Like a complete bastard," Raidou says. "How else should I have felt?"

Sato-san says there is no right or wrong way to feel one's feelings. The point is simply to recognize them, to allow oneself to have them, even if that goes counter to everything they'd been taught. One must never show weakness, never show tears. Always listen to your commander, and always put the mission first. Great. In wartime, this will probably keep you alive, but at home--

Sooner or later, they all break down. All of them, to a man. At night, when the camp is all but silent, you'll often hear whimpering from the next bunk; from the next tent over, you'll hear someone sobbing into their pillow, trying as best they can to muffle the sound. During the daytime, they are grateful to be alive, and eager to help out where they can. At night, when it's dark, they are each and every one of them lost and alone and scared. Some hold it together for a good long time. Some crack right away and spring back just as quickly. They have chaplains and medics available at all hours, but even they get tired.

There have been several suicide attempts in the past week; young men, for the most part. Best case, they aren't serious and they don't go too far from camp. Worst case? Raidou's seen what worst case looks like, and there hasn't been a worst case yet. But who ever knows? 

Raidou dreamed about his parents last night. He dreamed that his mother was alive, and they had the most wonderful conversation. She was exactly as he remembered her, beautiful, straight-backed and stern. She had so many questions about his life, and he'd planned to tell her everything, but the movement of his hands woke him. He'd been signing in his sleep.

"My mother was Deaf with a capital D," he explains. 

He grew up knowing sign language as a matter of course, and she also taught him to read and write. She taught him art and poetry and botany and other things your average grade-schooler would have zero interest in, because a child of Konoha ought to be well-rounded. She instilled in him bushido while he learned about poisons, because as much as she loathed killing, it was often necessary. She'd spring quizzes on him in the midst of dinner, and drill practicums while he helped do the laundry, because she would not have the other children thinking he was slow, either because of his parentage or because of his injuries. 

He was five, he says, when it happened. He was flying kites in a field with some neighborhood kids. He remembers a cool summer evening filled with tall grass, fireflies winking at dusk, and the smell of wet earth and cordite.

"I remember thinking it was a firecracker," he says. "I didn't think I was hurt that badly, you know?"

And considering what could have happened, he wasn't. The tag could have blown off his leg or killed him outright, but Raidou got lucky. He's told he went right into shock, and that is why he felt no pain; but he was conscious when they peeled off his burnt clothes. He was conscious and screaming while the medics assessed his burns, and he remembers vividly the crowd of anxious adults milling around outside the ER. 

He remembers someone talking to his parents, about whether or not they could save his leg, and he remembers his mother's hands slashing the air, violently insisting they do better than try. He remembers she sat by his bedside after he woke from sedation, and her cheeks were wet with tears. He says he didn't understand what was going on, really, but he knew he was sick. He was in the hospital for six months, and it became his whole world. He knew nothing else but rehab and illness and pain. He screamed and cried like any other child would when they debrided him, and he went mad for not being able to scratch his healing scabs.

"I had to wear a mask," he says. "I had to wear mittens so I wouldn't mess with it in my sleep."

He remembers the first time seeing his burnt face in a mirror, seeing the bulky dressing over his left eye, and how it finally became real to him. This was a thing that happened. This was a thing he'd have to explain to the other kids, so they wouldn't be afraid of him. His hearing impairment, he chose to hide. He remembers his mother asking him if he was ashamed, and her insistence that he not be. Most children his age speak only one language, perhaps two, but how many can lay claim to three? How many six year olds can perform doton as well as he can? How many have survived as well as he has? None that she knows of.

He must pause here to pick up a card, and ask Sato-san how he's able to remember all that when he forgets every other thing. Why is it he never forgets a face, but frequently scrambles the names of eating utensils and office supplies. He is not a religious man, but if there is a Buddhist Hell, then surely this is the first level?

"Oh, at least the ninth," says Sato-san. Memory loss is not always linear as depicted in films. It is often a fragmentary and splintered thing. Short-term is often the first to go. You might forget where you leave your glasses, or where you were when the trauma occurred, but you remember what you ate for dinner the night your dog died twenty years ago. 

It was chanko nabe, Raidou says, and it wasn't his dog. 

Be a good boy, mother signed, there's some bad news about Daddy. Please take Daisuke, please be quiet, please don't--and he'd gotten so angry, so very red hot with rage, he'd reached up and grabbed one of her hands, which had all the effect of covering a hearing person's mouth, and she'd slapped him across the face. It was the one and only time an adult ever raised their hand against him, but it stuck.

It was that day, during the wake, he learned he was a bastard. Literally. 

It was that day, eavesdropping from behind a crack in the rain-doors, while Daisuke sat like a perfect mensch with his building blocks--unaware, because he couldn't see their lips move--that Raidou learned what it was to be an outsider; a foreign element. He learned how loud adults could be when they thought no-one was listening, and he learned that words could absolutely hurt you, much more than a raised palm, much more than a closed fist. Blood will out, they said, and they called him a stain.

He was ten when he learned about rape, and after hearing that with his one sound ear, how could he blame her for hating him? He could be a handful. He could drive her absolutely up a wall with his antics sometimes. But she'd remind him time and time again, he was never unwanted. He was her eldest precious son, and both she and Daisuke would need him now, more than ever.

He had to grow up at lightning speed. 

His mother managed the finances, while he did the earning. He kept them afloat. He put everything aside to become the man she knew and expected him to be, and he never ever told her he was gay. Though he did realize quite young, he considered that information best kept to himself. Even while she was dying of kidney failure, he sat and he lied to her, and he regrets it to this day. He thinks now she would've been proud, would've accepted him no matter what, would have comforted him after the trauma of his own assault.

We are survivors, she'd say, you and I. We have survived, we will survive. He will survive, no matter what. The Namiashi may not be a renowned clan, but they do persevere. 

He picks up another card, pocket ace. Naturally, he expects Genma to fold and then whine at him about what a really terrible player he is, how he should know better by now and Raidou must love taking his money and so on....

"Tss," Genma slaps his hand down. "He's laughing, that's it. I'm done."

"Oh, are you walking away?" Raidou prods. "But it's so early."

"I don't think you get how this game works--" 

"Check, raise," Raidou says. "If you haven't got the stomach, don't play."

"You're lucky I like you," Genma says. "I know you've got some bullshit hand--"

Sato-san interrupts with small placating gesture. "Easy boys, easy."

They each pick up another card. Raise and call. Raidou lays down a flush, and without any fuss or embroidery, he gathers his chips. 

It's gotten late, and the rain hasn't let up one bit. He'd love to sit here all night and continue talking, but they've still got a schedule to keep. He's got to get back and be sure his boys are alright, that nobody's fighting or causing a stir. He knows Iwashi can be trusted, and he's quite good on his own, but the others--Hijiri and Ranka especially--do tend to get heated after a while. They'd come near to blows once, after one left a gaiter on the other's foot-locker.

"It's getting to be that time, isn't it?" Sato-san says.

"Mm." Raidou stands and collects his pot. He wouldn't dare insult Sato-san or Genma by counting in front of them, but there's just enough for a trip to the gedunk; a box of chocolate bars, crackers, something to keep the lads happy. "Sato-san--"

"Of course, of course, allow me to see you out," he says, laughing a bit at his own joke. Because there's not much of anything to show them out of; just a dimly lit medical tent with smudged plastic windows, and a single wooden coat rack from which they collect their ponchos.

Now would be the time to tell Sato-san they ship out in thirty-six hours, and they may or may not come back, but Raidou hesitates. After all their hard work in building him back up, caulking his cracks and reinforcing his seams, how can he betray anything other than unfailing positivity? 

Sato-san says it's alright. He understands they are bound by confidentiality, and so they don't have to say anything. Not if they don't want to.

"But I do," Raidou says. "I do want to say--thank you. For everything."

Sato-san waves him off. "Ah, let's not go getting sappy! Go on, now, we're letting the cold in." 

Later, Raidou will blame the lump in his throat on the dry air, and Genma will smile and remind him it's raining. Outside their tent, it's pouring down in steady sheets, and there is a distinct chill in the air. There is a distinct silence beneath the drumming and sizzling against the tent walls, an absence of music, laughter, footfalls; an absence of door-chimes and clattering, wooden slop buckets; an absence of cicadas droning and katydids drilling. It's after curfew. Radio silence.

\--It's the twenty-eighth, September--Raidou writes--eighteen-hundred hours. Ofc.s Shiranui, Tatami (younger), Hyuuga, Shimon, Tatami (elder) all present and accounted for. Despite inclement weather, morale is good. Ofc. Shimon requests that note be made of a growing laundry shortage and lack of proper sized towels, as the ones allotted leave little to the imagination. This has been noted by ofc. Namiashi himself, and will be relayed thru proper channels for consideration. Expect proper towels to arrive 'in another day or two', same as last time noted.--

Raidou pauses, for far too long, to review his words.

"Ara, Vice Captain's frozen again!" That's Ranka, the elder Tatami from across the tent. The younger Tatami is seated across from him, a near perfect copy, hunched studiously over a stack of memos.

"I haven't frozen," Raidou mutters. "I'm thinking."

Genma says, "Try not to hurt yourself!"

Raidou licks his pen and says, "I'll make a note of it." 

\--Along with Ofcs. Tatami (older and younger), Ofc. Shiranui continues to be supportive. He is an asset--Raidou continues, and emphasis on the 'ass'--around camp, without whom we would all laugh a lot less. We are doing well,--he writes--Regards, Ofc. Namiashi Raidou, 1st guard squadron, Konoha.--

It is now thirty-two hours until they ship out. Iwashi is in charge of their supply list, and he'll be at it 'til all hours, probably. When asked, he will lie and say he's not afraid. He's not worried anything will happen. He is a Shinobi of Konoha, sir, and Konoha Shinobi are not to be messed with. 

Ranka, hearing this, spits out his toothpaste and gives a perfunctory 'oorah'.

Raidou thinks about Daisuke. He's made it a point not to snoop and meddle in his own brother's affairs, but he'd be lying worse than Iwashi if he said he wasn't worried. He's kept awake at night wondering if he ought to find him, talk to him one last time, and finally set his affairs in order. He knows he ought to be writing things down. It's fruitless trying to leave anything to anybody if it's not properly notarized--and he does want to leave something. He wants to leave his assets to his niece and nephews. To his Sister-in-law. To his Aunt and to Genma's parents. To Sato-san, he would like to leave his log and the hundred ryo he'd won in their last poker game; and to any of his friends that survive him, he'd like to leave his weapons and few personal effects; his playing cards, his ball in a cup game, his shaving kit. That's all, he believes. The rest--his uniform and hitai-ate, his cape, his boots and his flak, will be burned or buried with him.

He does not want Genma to have them. Should he make it through this, Raidou does not want him left with such terrible reminders. He does not want his katana and scrolls, and the old blood he cannot smell, to rest over their personal shrine and poison the air there. He wants to leave only the happiest of memories, of the little time they have together, so he will not worry him with talk of death or dying tonight.

They are at liberty now, though it's a somber one. They have beer and crisps, relaxed obligations, and for anyone dogged enough to brave the weather, there's table-tennis in the r&r tent; there's oden and sweets at the cantina; there's even bungalows for conjugal time.

The last is a popular topic of conversation, and the boys do talk a good game, but at nineteen-hundred and twenty-hundred, they're all still laughing it up from their bedrolls. Save Iwashi, who sits doggedly, head in hands over his lists, while playing cards whiz past him to join the pile around the empty dust-bin. 

Genma sneaks up and gently tips Iwashi's seat back. "Oi, take a break before your brain fossilizes."

"I'm fine."

"Take a break."

"I said I'm fine!" He's near horizontal now.

Raidou says, "Let him go...nicely."

Genma sets the chair and Iwashi upright. "Man, your face is lowering morale, could you at least crack open a beer or something?"

Iwashi turns, like he's looking to Raidou for backup, and the window above his head goes white. Every one of them, to a man, hits the deck. 

"It's just lightning," Ranka yells. "Jesus!"

Iwashi bear crawls out from under the table to give his brother a smack, and it's not long before the other two Chuunin have to pull them apart.

Raidou is still holding his breath when the second t-boomer hits.

"Getting pretty hairy out there, huh?" Genma does not crawl to Raidou's futon, but gets up and walks. "You okay?"

He exhales. "Fine, thanks."

He has visions of having to go outside and sandbag, of wading through mud, knee deep; he can hear it, feel it trying to suck his boots off, swallow him whole; but he's not going to let it. The batting dips beside him, and he sits up to rest his forehead on Genma's shoulder.

"About time for lights out," Genma says. "You know, the booty cabin's still open...."

That's what he calls it. Raidou slides back to his pillow with a groan. "Oh for god's--"

"I'm sorry. Nut hut?"

"Go. Back to your bunk. Don't make things any harder than they have to be."

"Phallus palace," Genma chortles. "G'night, Lieutenant."

The mattress bounds back, the sky rumbles, and one by one the lanterns go dim. Lights out, boys, see you in the morning. 

And Raidou is facing the mountain. There are wildflowers growing along the slopes, colorful lichens that crunch beneath his feet. He stoops to run his fingers through a crop of pink-headed seed grass, yellow mustard flowers, purple cosmos. He travels deeper into the foothills, where the fertile volcanic soil gives way to a mossy carpeted sea of trees. The trail disappears here, and soon he is walking amidst a scattering of grave markers too worn to read. He is knee deep in soft vegetation, cradled by the forest, lulled by the murmur of a nearby stream. A yard behind him, Genma whistles at a cardinal, and Raidou freezes. Several yards distant, he hears rustling. He remembers Genma saying something about these woods being full of bears. He remembers, the very worst thing you can do if you see one is run. And lo, a shadow looms between two very tall trees. 

He turns to motion: stop. Wait. Don't move.

Still, he comes, and Raidou's shouting it now. "Wait!" 

He's sat bolt upright in his bunk, hyperventilating, and the forest is gone. The murmur is replaced by a steady, patter of rain, and the birdsong by his comrades complaints.

Is that you, senpai? What's happening? Is everything okay? Are we under attack? It's just thunder, Jesus!

Genma approaches Raidou's futon like one approaches a live ordinate. "We're not under attack," he sighs. "Stand down."

Raidou flops back with a wince. Just the thing everyone needs, eh? As if they're not already on edge. Here he's supposed to be the senior man, the one they all look up to--

Across the tent, Tokuma clears his throat. "I have them too," he says stiffly. "Nightmares. I have them all the time."

"We all do," Iwashi says. "Just go back to sleep."

For a moment, silence. 

The mattress dips beside him, and he shifts over to make room. He knows Genma by feel, and by the texture of his breathing. He knows him like home. Though it's still too dark to see, he can just make out the shape of his hands, signing: 'hey, tiger, wanna make out?'

Raidou signs back, 'You're incorrigible.' And though it goes against every ounce, every last drop of his better judgment, he asks him to stay. Just lie with him until he falls asleep. Because there's no way they can sneak off without drawing attention, and Raidou does not want to make love like it's the last time. He doesn't want it to be in some dank, wooden, stall. He wants it to be in his new bed, their new home. 

'Just wait a moment,' Raidou signs, and once he is sure of the silence, once he is sure nobody's looking, he turns over and lets Genma kiss him goodnight.

Come sunup, he's returned to his own futon, and Raidou's tempted to think it was all a dream. The morning fog has already started to burn off, and it's clear today's going to be a hot one. All throughout reveille and during drills, that's all anyone can talk about. Soon the leaves will change, the days will get shorter, and they'll all be complaining about the cold. Because people are a short-sighted lot, they'll forget what it is to labor and sweat; they'll forget the warm kiss of sunlight on bare skin. They'll forget what it is to be happy.

Genma says that's normal. At breakfast, he is as solemn and unsmiling as anybody, but his forearm is still warm, still personal against Raidou's own. 

War is no different from winter. No different from depression. People talk about winning like it's a thing. They talk about guts. They say harden the hell up. They say only cowards go home. As if dying is at once a great act of courage and the deepest of all sins. As if admitting fear is the end.

Raidou remembers the explosion. He keeps it folded to his breast like an old photograph. He wears it on his skin like a medal. He touches it to remind himself that his virtue lies not in being unbreakable, but in knowing what it is to be broken.

Genma stabs at a fillet with his chopsticks. He says, "Self-sacrifice is a load of bullshit," and Raidou finally agrees with him.

Personally, he'll be doing his best to make it home alive, in whatever condition he can. Afterwards is when the real work begins.

 

 


End file.
